


Five Times

by strangegibbon



Series: In Memoriam [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alley Sex, Drama, Drug Use, Elgar, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Masturbation, Naughty Tailors, Raging Adolescent Hormones, Romance, Sherlock's Violin, Voyeurism, sherlock in a sheet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-31
Updated: 2012-05-31
Packaged: 2017-11-06 10:04:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/417604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangegibbon/pseuds/strangegibbon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chronicle of Sherlock's formative lap related incidents.</p><p>Now translated into Polish by the wonderful Toootie!<br/>Find it here http://archiveofourown.org/works/1267870/chapters/2618116</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’m pretty sure the A/N will turn out longer than the chapter – don’t worry, things will quickly escalate out of control as this was originally meant to be a one-shot but ended up, for various reasons, not. All thanks to my BFF and beta Lyrium Flower – bow down and worship for within her is an eternity of squee - and also the wonderful Mirith Griffin for encouragey pokeage. FYI UK pants = briefs, boxers or Y fronts (especially if you’re over 35 and still live with your mother). Slash, eventual John x Sherlock.

**Five times Sherlock came in his pants...and the one time he didn’t**

It would only be fair to mention that he was twelve and still reeling from the cacophony of hormones that seemed to have made every single nerve ending hypersensitive and had also seen fit to give him bionic vision which zoomed in unerringly on any exposed patch of skin within a five mile radius. Didn’t matter if the owner of said skin was bundled in fifteen layers of clothing, his overactive imagination helpfully supplied the bits unseen in lurid detail.

It was completely _un_ fair that the seat was still warm from the old lady who had recently vacated it and whilst he was trying to get himself under control the coach had gone over an unfeasibly large bump in the road and, well, there you have it.

The next few hours were extremely uncomfortable; he sat curled in on himself with his crotch drying cold and stiff but the rush of sensation previously read about but never experienced had been so unexpected, so _thrilling_ he almost gave it another go under cover of his entomology textbook. The thing that stopped him, however, was the image of Mycroft’s smug, appraising expression in the car on the way home. Once he could get away with, twice would be more than mere accident and Mycroft would just _know_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chronicle of Sherlock's formative lap related incidents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter undeniably short, here's another not quite so. Thought I'd mention I was more than a little inspired to write this after watching the Sherlock fanvid 'Sherlocked In His Pants' – absolutely hilarious, YT it, I insist. I fell off my chair twice before I sat down and wrote and then had to go and spend some time staring incredulously at myself in the mirror.
> 
> Thanks again to Lyrium Flower. This is all your fault, woman. Slash.

**Five Times Sherlock Came In His Pants…And The One Time He Didn't**

In fact his brother's face was a sufficient deterrent to any further lap related incidents for the next couple of years – Margaret Thatcher had  _nothing_ on Mycroft in the throes of lofty disapproval and all Sherlock had to do on encountering any potentially embarrassing situations was to picture him. He refused to consider what would happen if his perfect recall tossed the image up, as it were, within the context of any other encounter. Cross that bridge etc. if and when.

Unfortunately this strategy failed him utterly when he was fourteen and playing in his school's orchestra. The solo 'cello was a sturdy, scholarly sort with cropped blond hair and glasses, not much to look at, but  _oh_ when he started to play - and Sherlock's mouth would go unaccountably slack at the sight - his eyes would close, his head thrown back in abandon, and his thighs would tighten around his instrument as if it were a recalcitrant lover, utterly lost in the music. Even during rehearsals Sherlock had to fight to concentrate - not on the music in front of him, he'd already committed his part to memory - but on not staring at the soloist like a love-struck teenaged girl or, worse still, some sort of starving dog. Yes, he had a mild crush, he was aware of that. Something that was completely age appropriate and nothing to be ashamed of. As his hormones settled so would his…preferences and this rather distracting fixation would pass. The music was undeniably erotic as was any sort of advanced skill, no matter to whom it belonged, so this sort of thing was absolutely to be expected. Nothing to be concerned over.

The end of term concert traditionally required the whole orchestra to be suited and booted in formal dress, carnations and all. Sherlock was just settling himself into his chair, tugging irritably at his shirt collar, when the soloist strode on, instrument in hand. He sat down with a theatrical sweep of his tailed jacket, adjusted his spike and gave a few brisk pulls of bow over rosin. An answering flare of arousal at this simple display told Sherlock that he was already in deep trouble. The cumulative currents of performance anxiety and an unresolved crush were wreaking havoc on his already rebellious hormones and the resulting hyperawareness of the other boy's body flooded heavy pressure through his groin, bringing back unsettling memories of a long-ago coach trip home.

As the concerto progressed the soloist's movements gradually became both more languid and more urgent. Mycroft's derisory grimace, summoned for the purposes of distraction since he couldn't actually see his brother from the floodlit stage although imagined tendrils of disdain were already starting to curl around him, was shoved further to the back of his mental landscape and Sherlock could not tear his eyes away from this suddenly illuminated, most mundane of boys.

The growl of the cello was hypnotic, a throaty groan to the orchestra's answering sigh. The cellist's fingers danced up the neck of the instrument, and, watching him with a mouth that was suddenly as dry as a desert, Sherlock's overheated brain called forth images of calloused fingers stroking up his throat and tapping a light pizzicato across his ribs. He could hear the quiet panting of the violinist seated next to him, and, tongues of heat running up and down his body,  _felt_ the sound as a myriad of unformed words whispered into his neck.

He tried to re-gather himself in the quiet of the next break by focusing on the music in front of him, plucking at his shirt discreetly, feeling sweat trickle and pool in the hollow of his sternum. The sudden firm strum of thumb on string reverberated his spine with another bolt of sensation and he jerked involuntarily. He risked a quick look at the source and instantly knew that it was the worst  _possible_ thing he could have done under the circumstances. The boys in his class, usually vacillating between intimidating, ignoring and outright mocking him, all had a running joke about cumfaces and if there were ever a more perfect illustration it was writhing in front of him with curled toes and furiously sawing wrist.

His meticulously constructed layers of diffidence and self-control were being ripped from him, incinerated in the roaring blast furnace of  _want_ and he found himself suddenly naked and terrified in front of an audience of strangers. With distant horror Sherlock felt the pressure in his lower belly increase in tandem with the intensity of the concerto, his eyes flicking helplessly between the conductor and the soloist who was becoming more and more rigid, swept away on a crescendo of building tension.

As Elgar's most famous reached its climax, with a barely stifled groan, eyes fixed on the swaying, transported boy, so did Sherlock. The crash of the orchestra was loud enough to conceal his ragged gasps and the ferocity of the finale easily explained his contorted expression as he squeezed his eyes shut and tried frantically to control his breathing so as not draw any further attention to his flushed, dishevelled state.

All eyes were already on him at the crash of his overturned music stand, however, and that did not help matters in the  _slightest_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chronicle of Sherlock's formative lap related incidents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my head (and probably for my own sinister purposes), the tailor in this chapter looks more than a bit like Tom Hardy. Thanks as always surprisingly from behind to my beta and enabler Lyrium Flower without whom I may have been more normal (or at the very least more sane) as well as to all of you. Slash.

**Five Times Sherlock Came In His Pants…And The One Time He Didn't**

He'd grown again, his slender frame bordering on skinny, and, after a relatively slow start, making definitive forays into gangly. His bony ankles now stuck out of the bottom of his school trousers, overlarge feet completing the image of some funereal clown. At seventeen his mother unexpectedly announced that it was past time he got measured for his first suit although she airily dismissed his school uniform as 'good for another year at least', much to his dismay. They were to go together to Savile Row and then afterwards for afternoon tea in yet another transparent attempt at a mother-son bonding session, more than likely at Mycroft's instigation. Sherlock viewed the whole approaching exercise with a mixture of hope, trepidation and resignation, predicting a long, awkward afternoon in a crowded tearoom with him making peremptory observations about the people around them and watching her out of the corner of his eye for a reaction. As usual her gaze would be flitting around the room and resting on everyone but him whilst she made distant enquiries about his schoolwork.

Suits were pointless, he thought. He'd grow out of this one before he ever had to attend a wedding (no one in his family was likely to get hitched any time soon – his thoughts went briefly to Mycroft but the patently ridiculous idea was swiftly dismissed with a snort), attend an interview (universities would accept him or not, clothes were no substitute for intellect) or a funeral, although sudden deaths were obviously tricky to predict. Suits were for the unimaginative, for those who wanted to fade into the background, to become one of the chattering, ordinary, brain-dead commuter crowd. Suits were  _boring._

Still, Mumm-  _Mother-_  was set on the idea and one chilly spring morning they boarded a train for London, Sherlock sitting hunched and sulky, forehead resting on the window, watching the ordinary, uncomplicated lives fly by and wondering how normal people withstood the banality of their mundane existences. One claustrophobic, olfactory assault of a taxi ride later they entered a small, brightly lit shop which appeared to be empty of everything apart from three suits on hangers spaced equidistantly around the room, a counter, a pair of ornate chairs and a recessed changing room with heavy velvet curtains. Sherlock's mother clicked her way across to the counter and rang the bell briskly. A young man in his shirtsleeves promptly appeared still chewing what was obviously the remnants of his lunch, a tape measure hanging around his neck and the first two buttons of his exquisitely fitted shirt undone. He smiled pleasantly and then cast a quick up and down glance at Sherlock who pursed his lips and eyed him back imperiously. The quick up and down turned into a slower appraisal whilst the tailor sucked his thumb and smirked at him, obviously amused.

"And how may I help Sir and Madam today?"

"A suit, please, for my son."

"Any particular occasion? What are you looking for?"

Sherlock tuned out their conversation about cloth, cut and colour and turned his head to look out of the window, keeping the tailor in his peripheral vision without being too obvious. His hair was an unremarkable sand colour but thick and soft looking, his eyes a startling blue.  _Middle class, Estuary accent almost completely overcome – elocution lessons or intense practice, mid-20s, clothes provided by shop but well fitted and cared for._ He watched him flash a bright smile at his mother who involuntarily touched her hair in response.  _Good looking, uses it to his advantage when selling to women._  He blinked and looked away quickly as the tailor caught his eye and winked.  _Men too, where...appropriate._ Flushing, he stuck his hands in his pockets and turned towards the suit hanging beside him.

He jumped as the tailor brushed past in a puff of warm air and dragged a low step out from against the wall. "Shall we get measuring then?"

"I'll leave you to it, darling," said his mother absently. "Back soon."

"Take your time," replied the tailor, gesturing to Sherlock to step up onto the block. The bell on the door chimed gently as he stared after his mother in mild consternation before slamming his foot down harder onto the stool than was strictly necessary. "Name's Vic, by the way," the man added, smiling up at him. "This won't take long, slip your coat off please."

Feeling oddly naked in a lightweight jumper Sherlock settled for resting his gaze in the middle distance but couldn't help flinching slightly at the first soft touch of the tape on his shoulder.

"Arms first," said Vic, running his thumb down to Sherlock's wrist, warmth laying gently on his pulse point for a brief second before he picked a pencil from behind his ear and scribbled onto a small notepad. "All right, now shoulders." Again the touch of tape, fingers running gently across his back. He squirmed slightly. "Ticklish, are you?" Sherlock grunted noncommittally and heard a soft chuckle from behind him. "Nice and broad for someone your age. What are you, sixteen? Seventeen?"

"Seventeen."

"I remember seventeen. Seventeen was crap. Lots of things going on and none of them making sense."

Sherlock risked a sidelong glance to find Vic looking up at him. He gave him a lopsided grin and a one sided shrug, relaxing slightly. "I'm going to university soon. Everything will be better there."

"Good for you. Back now." A warm hand was placed gently at the nape of his neck, drifting down until it found the knobble of his C7, leaving raised hairs in its wake. It rested there whilst the other traced the bumps of his vertebrae slowly to the small of his back.

"You cold?"

"No."

"I can turn the heater up if you like."

"I'm fine. It's...I'm fine."

"Ok, well you let me know. Waist now, jumper up, please."

Sherlock lifted his jumper tentatively and watched as the tailor's arms came around him, the fingers of one pressing lightly against his belly as the other skimmed the tape over pale, twitching skin. "Hips." He breathed in sharply through his nose as the arms disappeared and hands rested on the curve of his buttocks, smoothing the tape down and around, trying not to press himself forward as they travelled lightly over the top of his groin. He suddenly became aware his breathing had sped up and clenched his fists, twisting cashmere between his fingers and concentrating on the wall opposite.

"Coming round the front, Sir. And you can pull your top down now." His voice was low and warm and as Sherlock watched the top of his head and wondered what it would feel like to plunge his hand into that thick hair Vic looked up at him, eyes dancing with amusement and a hint of... _something_. Flushing, he glanced away quickly, lips thinning.  _He's laughing at me._ A soft touch on his hand drew his gaze back and he saw Vic looking at him with concern shading grey into that brilliant blue.

"Nearly done, Sir, but we can wait 'til your mum gets back if you'd prefer."

" _No._ " It was out before he could stop it and he snapped his mouth shut quickly. "Just finish it please."

Holding his gaze Vic nodded and slowly reached out a hand. Sherlock found himself following the path of those fine fingers towards him as if they were riding an invisible wake only he could see, the air parting smoothly before them until they reached the still raised hem of his jumper and pulled at it gently. The cloth fell out of his nerveless fingers as the warmth of soft skin trailed down his stomach. He made a tiny noise of protest in the back of his throat as the hand was removed and closed his eyes.  _So desperate, Sherlock_ sang Mycroft's voice in his head.  _How humiliating for you._

"Are you all right?" He nodded without opening his eyes.

"Need to take measurements for the trousers, Sir."

His eyes flew open as a hand gripped one hip gently, giving it a small squeeze before running down the outside of his leg to his ankle, encircling it with a brush of thumb against the bony prominence.  _Lateral malleolus_  Sherlock thought feverishly, biting the inside of his lip.

"Inside leg now," said Vic softly and Sherlock almost groaned aloud at the purr in his voice. Fingers trailed agonisingly slowly up his calf to his inner thigh then on to the crease of his groin, the faintest brush of knuckles causing an involuntary hiss to escape.

"Long legs," Vic muttered. "I've a nice fit for that." He stood up slowly and raised his chin. "All done," he murmured, moving closer until his face was inches away, looping the tape measure carefully back around his neck. Sherlock picked up the end, feeling the warmth of the metal tip and then dropped it again, thumb rubbing against fingers nervously, watching the other man inch forwards as if approaching a skittish animal.

"It's all right, Sir. Everything's fine." Vic grinned suddenly, wide and brilliant, unbearably handsome, a joyous sparkle in his eyes.

"Yes," whispered Sherlock, his mind in free fall for the first time ever, the gravity of that blue, blue gaze drawing him in. He started as the bell chimed suddenly and jerked backwards, unaware he had been tilting towards those soft, smiling lips, stepping away quickly and almost falling headlong off the step.

"All done," said Vic easily, clearing his throat. "Come back in a few hours, I've something in that will be perfect, just needs adjusting. Careful off that step now, Sir," he added as Sherlock tottered down on wobbly legs

Sherlock's mother nodded, eyes on her watch, and beckoned him out. He scooped his coat up awkwardly and hurried after her, steeling himself not to look round, feeling Vic's gaze on the back of his neck as the ghost of a large, warm hand.

* * *

Afternoon tea was as he predicted although not quite as awkward as he'd envisioned; his thoughts frequently wandered towards gentle hands on his body, his imagination sending them further and with increasing boldness each time he revisited the sense memories. He shifted in his chair and tried to concentrate on the surrounding patrons.

"You're awfully quiet, Sherlock." His mother's gaze was sharp on him and he looked up, startled.

"Headache," he managed, trying not to flush, but to his relief her eyes were already elsewhere.

It had started to drizzle as they re-entered the shop hours later, Sherlock shivering for reasons entirely unrelated to the chill of the rain. Vic appeared at the jingle of the bell, gesturing his mother to one of the ornate chairs. He smiled at him directly, a slow, warm curl of the lips that made Sherlock's stomach drop, and inclined his head at the changing room.

"I've hung the suit in there with a shirt so you can get an idea of how the whole ensemble will look." Sherlock nodded mutely and set off towards the curtained cubicle. "Give me a shout if you need anything," Vic called after him.

Buttoning the jacket he hardly recognised himself in the mirror. The suit was a rich black wool, well cut, classic and perfectly fitted. The shirt was a muted...green? Blue? He couldn't decide but it felt smooth and cool against his skin. There was a rustle of cloth and Vic appeared beside him.

"Nice," he said slowly. "Very nice. Had this suit earmarked for myself but it looks a lot better on you. Fit ok?" He brushed a hand over Sherlock's shoulder, stepping closer and tilting his head in appreciation.

"I think so."

"Would you like me to check?"

Sherlock hesitated, catching the other man's gaze in the mirror. "Yes. Please."

Vic huffed a warm breath onto the back of his neck, arms coming around him to pull at the hem of the jacket, smoothing up his chest to straighten the lapels, holding his gaze, almost daring him to blink.

"Collar emphasises that lovely long neck. Maybe a brighter colour in the shirt for you next time, contrast that pale skin of yours." Hands moved downwards and Sherlock gasped as they settled on his hips, feeling the older man's chest against his back. "Good. Not too tight, skims you in all the right places." His hands came around, palms flattening against his groin and Sherlock bucked into them, throwing his head back against a shoulder, his eyes falling shut. "Good thing we worked in some pleats here, eh?" Vic breathed into his ear as he began to move his hands slowly, tracing his length, gently stroking and squeezing until Sherlock was biting on his own hand, desperate to keep from whimpering aloud. He writhed gently, supported by Vic's chest, dizzy with sensation, feeling his release rushing towards him in great white wave.

"One last thing, I think." A sudden absence of warmth as Vic pulled away and Sherlock keened softly at the loss of friction as he felt himself turned, strong arms coming around to reach behind his head. A whisper of touch as soft cashmere was looped around his neck then a hand at the small of his back as he pressed himself helplessly into the other man, insensible of everything, the hum of the lights, the sounds of traffic outside, the creak of the chair as his mother shifted impatiently. He heard Vic make a low, pleased noise, lips against his neck, the scarf was tightened constricting his throat and all of a sudden he was coming with hot, shuddering breaths, his face buried in the tailor's shoulder, only half aware of hands coming up to rub soothing circles into his back.

When he was once again capable of coherent thought he found himself alone. He took off the suit, hanging it carefully before throwing his clothes on as fast as humanly possible and wincing at the state of his underwear. Nothing to be done about that, unfortunately. He stepped out of the cubicle and stopped short, pinned like an ant under a magnifying glass by his mother's accusatory gaze. Vic was back behind the counter, chatting amiably about the weather but for once her focus was sharply, intensely on Sherlock and he found himself quailing inwardly at her frozen expression.

"We need to go," she snapped after a few excruciating seconds had passed, turning her icy stare onto the tailor who blinked a couple of times in quick succession. "I'd like to pay."

"Of course." Vic nodded. "We'll have the suit delivered in a few days. Shop policy is to dry clean before releasing it, free of charge of course." Out of the corner of his eye Sherlock saw a faint grimace pass over his mother's face before she nodded abruptly and unsnapped her handbag.

"I'd like the scarf as well." He ventured, clutching it in both hands and staring at his shoes.

"We didn't come here for  _accessories_ , Sherlock," said his mother crushingly. "I think you've had quite enough today, thank you."

"Keep it," said Vic from behind the counter. He flashed a quick smile as they both darted a look at him. "I'll throw it in for free. Suits you, Sir," he added, his grin fading into a softer, warmer expression, directing a slight nod at Sherlock.

They left hurriedly, Sherlock not daring to look back. Afterwards he found, to feelings of mixed relief and intense guilt that he was never called upon for another excruciating attempt at a bonding session. In fact Mother seemed to ignore him even more, much to Mycroft's consternation and mild puzzlement, but that, he decided, was perfectly fine with him.

He also found that slipping on a well cut suit gave him a strange, sly thrill that never really faded over the years and the less said about scarves, the better. For one of the few times in his life he acknowledged that he had been gravely mistaken in his beliefs.

Suits were not boring at all.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chronicle of Sherlock's formative lap related incidents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was rather nervous about this story having a) not written anything for the fandom previously and b) only dabbled in writing slash before and rather indirectly at that. With each chapter (they appear to be doubling in size) I'm gradually unclenching, metaphorically speaking.
> 
> Cybersquishes to Lyrium Flower for Thighgate and a million other things, I can't thank you enough. Slash.

**Five Times Sherlock Came In His Pants…And The One Time He Didn't**

Sherlock hated university. After the institutional terrorism of school he'd been eager to escape, to reinvent himself somewhere no-one knew him and be anyone he had a mind to. He fancied tortured genius, the melodrama appealing to him on a base level. He would be a misunderstood survivor of the brutal, hierarchical private education system, there should be some sort of award, really. He'd be the clever, mysterious one you went to when you needed a problem solving, someone clearly set apart but respected. Respect bordering on awe would be acceptable, he decided. Still gangly, he used some of his trust fund money to buy himself a long, black coat, ostensibly to make himself look bigger but additionally to foster the image of an aloof, enigmatic-bordering-on-eccentric personality. It also had the benefit of being very warm.

Disappointingly, university turned out to be not much different to school although the methods used to exclude, mock and intimidate were far more refined. His first day in Halls he was striding down the corridor to his room, coat flaring dramatically when a flat voice behind him declared 'Jesus, look at that pretentious twat,' to a rising tide of sniggers. After that it only got worse despite his attempts to impress and intimidate and he retreated into his usual pattern of diffidence, barbed comments and deductive character assassination, withdrawing into his room. He only emerged for lectures and occasionally to replenish his pitifully low food supplies when things started spinning around him. Cigarettes helped, of course, serving as repellents, rewards, props, comfort and even as meals, but there was no substitute for base calories in the end. One day, forced by necessity into the refectory, he was sniping at a particularly brainless female student when he encountered something completely unexpected. Laughter. Genuine, amused laughter and not, for once, at his expense. He turned in surprise to see a familiar face sporting a huge grin before the owner strode up and clapped him on a shoulder.

"Nice one, Sherlock! Bitch had it coming."

Sebastian Wilkes. Eton educated, moneyed, handsome and all round (Sherlock couldn't help but think this with a small amount of vitriol) Popular Student. Add into that  _college rower_  and you had someone whose attention was not usually that of the benevolent kind especially when it came to people like Sherlock. But there he was, smiling at him and reiterating the fact that they lived in the same Halls (as if Sherlock didn't know) and that he had a  _favour_ to ask him if he could spare the time. Said favour involved Sherlock investigating a student in the year above who had designs on his vaunted Stroke spot by way of sabotaging upcoming trials. Sebastian was so pleased with the result - the student was exposed and duly vilified - that he took him out to dinner.

Much to his surprise he had a very enjoyable evening much of which they spent discussing their fellow students, Sherlock relaxing more and more as Sebastian's delighted laughter at his acerbic observations, even those concerning Sebastian himself, rang through the half empty restaurant.

After that, Sebastian,  _Seb,_ took to dropping in on him a few times a week, sometimes bringing a bottle, occasionally dragging him out to dinner, but most often settling on his bed with an economics textbook and simply reading, saying he could concentrate better with him in the same room. Over time Sherlock found his gaze drawn more and more to the other student. Angular and aristocratic with a rangy rower's body he had a natural charisma that drew the eye and an easy, charming manner. His company was constantly sought out by the other students but apart from a group of friends he trained with he mostly eschewed them in favour of spending time with Sherlock who was by turns exulting and suspicious. Unable to resist, he had asked him once why such a popular chap, one who people naturally gravitated towards, would be seen in the company of someone like, well, like _him_ _._  Seb had merely laughed loudly, pulled him into an unexpected hug and told him that he liked having him around.

* * *

"I'm bored, let's go out. There's this girl coming to the bar tonight, think you'll like her."

"Can't, Seb."

"Why not?"

"Too much work to do."

"Aww," Seb flopped onto his stomach and gazed up at him from his bed, grinning triumphantly when Sherlock rolled his eyes but was entirely unable to suppress a small smile. "For me?" He bounded up, slinging an arm around his friend and pulled him firmly against his side noticing with a quirk of an eyebrow how he coloured and turned his face away slightly. "Go  _on_. For Sebbie?"

Sherlock sighed and nodded, making a grand show of closing his textbook, secretly pleased to be coerced. Seb ruffled his hair and cheered. " _Brilliant._  You never know, we might find you a shag as well. Stranger things have happened, eh?"

A frown. "Not interested."

"Yeah, yeah." Seb had a complete disregard for personal space, especially Sherlock's, and he leaned in close, pressing his forehead against his thick dark mop of hair. "So you keep saying. But- " he dropped his voice and Sherlock's eyes moved to his lips involuntarily, "-I don't  _believe_ you." He grinned up at him and Sherlock caught his breath slightly at his careless proximity. "Meet you downstairs in thirty." Another quick press of his forehead and he was gone leaving a curl of expensive aftershave in his wake.

Sherlock wrapped his coat more tightly around himself and stared at the rumpled spot on the bed where Seb had lounged moments ago. He always managed to talk him into doing what he wanted, not that it took much - he was uncomfortably aware he followed him round like some pathetic attention-starved animal most of the time but Seb was...he was  _Seb._  He could spend time with anyone he wanted to, yet he sought out Sherlock's company constantly and that was...good. He was important to Seb, he  _mattered_. He allowed himself another small smile and drifted a hand across his forehead, still feeling smooth skin on his.

He strode into the lobby half an hour later faltering slightly at the sight of his friend surrounded by various members of his rowing team all of whom were eyeing him with expressions ranging from derisory to outright hostile.

"We off to a funeral, Sebbie?"

"Didn't know we were dressing up tonight."

"Shut up, you twats," replied Seb firmly, directing a stern glare at the assembled group. "Sherlock can wear what he bloody well wants." He strode towards his friend, now standing ramrod stiff, ignoring the muttering which followed, and threw an arm over his shoulder. "He makes the rest of us look good. Nice suit," he added with a wink, earning himself a grateful twitch of the lips. "Shall we?"

As usual the student bar was noisy and smoky; Sherlock secreted himself in a corner, nursing a whisky and trying not to let his gaze drift over to Seb too often. The other man was exchanging stories with his friends, each trying to outdo the other with escalating tales of conquests and drunken escapades to general guffaws and macho scuffling. He grimaced into his glass and tried not to think too hard about what was sticking his left shoe to the floor. In the periphery of his vision he registered Seb straightening, his attention caught by two girls who had just entered and saw him mutter something to the other men before starting in Sherlock's direction. He focused on the one who had caught Seb's eye.

 _Dark hair, touch of dye, considered pretty by conventional standards I suppose, casually dressed, expensive clothes. Rich family._  He watched her look around the room.  _Tentative, not her kind of place so is here tonight specifically for something._  Seb beckoned her over, smiling, as her friend drifted towards the bar.  _Or someone._

"Ellie! So glad you could make it," he kissed her quickly on both cheeks before waving her to a chair opposite Sherlock, seating himself next to her. "She's another PPE-er. Ellie, meet my friend Sherlock."

"Hi."

"Hello."

There was a short pause. Seb clapped his hands briskly, announced he was getting the next round in and trotted off to the bar, raising his eyebrows at Sherlock over her shoulder.

"Seb's told me a lot abou-"

"Spare me."

"Sorry?"

Sherlock rocked back on his chair and eyed her down the length of his nose, index finger rubbing briskly across his bottom lip.

"You're not here to make small talk with Seb's  _friend._ You ordered an orange juice, by your complexion and general demeanour you likely don't drink. This is not your usual sort of place so you came here with a purpose. Brought a friend with you for reassurance who immediately left as soon as Seb called you over which tells me you weren't planning to spend any time with her, probably pre-agreed, because you were going to spend the evening with him." He flicked his eyes over her. "New top, creases in the arms, fresh painted nails, oh you're out to  _impress._ You ducked your head when he kissed you on the cheek, submissive, bit unsure of yourself, perhaps you suddenly realised you don't know him as well as you thought you did."

"Seb? But he- "

"I wouldn't worry," Sherlock said with a smile that made the icy coldness in his eyes even more apparent. "Seb caters for all levels of experience. Ask that girl over there. Or the one standing next to him at the bar. Wait another hour or so and there'll be more, perhaps they'll share war stories with you."

He watched her cast a desperate glance over to the crush of people where Seb was standing and then back at him. "Run along," he said dismissively. "No need to stay on my account."

She fled, not even stopping to say goodbye to Seb who watched her leave with faint surprise. On the way back he paused within his circle of friends muttering a few quiet words and Sherlock saw with narrowed eyes the furtive exchange of banknotes.

"What was all that about?" He said sharply after Seb had settled himself at the table and pushed another whisky towards him.

"Had a bet on," he replied airily. "Thought she was quite keen but looks like she scares easily. Like a girl with a little more  _backbone,_ know what I mean?" He held up his bottle to be clinked. "Probably did us a favour, buddy, those ones can get clingy. Good idea to avoid the bunny boilers." He smiled lazily. "Come on, let's get  _drunk._ "

* * *

Several hours later he was watching Seb's pink-tinged face laughing up at him through a haze of alcohol. He felt heavy and leaden yet deliciously wanton, a secret thrill rushing up his spine every time Seb leaned against him and bellowed his amusement.

"Her. Over there."

"Unsure about her sexuality. Snogged the barman in the corridor not ten minutes ago but can't take her eyes off the female coat attendant."

"What about her?"

"Not a student. Townie, likes younger men. Failing marriage or open relationship, has taken off her wedding ring in the hopes that someone here will be attracted to the more  _experienced_  woman."

"God, you're priceless."

Sherlock smiled, eyes drifting shut against the spin of the room, and rested his head against Seb's shoulder.

"Come on, we're going."

"What?" Sherlock opened his eyes groggily. "Where?"

"House party, friend of mine."

"I don't think I- "

"Come  _on._ It'll be fun." He lifted Sherlock's chin gently with a fingertip and moved his face closer. "Don't worry, Sebbie'll look after you."

Disorientated, Sherlock awoke to find himself being dragged out of a taxi by a chuckling Seb who promptly seized a fistful of his shirt and guided him through the front of a house heaving with bodies. He dimly registered a muted cheer at his friend's arrival before he was shoved into a crowded kitchen, a filled glass appearing in his hand. He took a sip, still blinking in the over-bright room and grimaced.

"God, what  _is_ that?"

"Tequila."

"Ugh. Tastes like lighter fluid."

"Don't wrinkle your nose, not everyone keeps stocks of aged whisky around just in case the elusive Sherlock makes an appearance. It'll do the job." Seb grabbed his wrist and forced the glass up to his lips, raising his own. "Down in one."

"Hey, Sebbie," a blonde girl sidled up whilst Sherlock was still wiping his eyes and coughing, placing a red tipped hand on his friend's waist and smiling slyly up at him. He shot her a belligerent look and swayed, deciding against asking whether she'd applied her make-up with a shotgun in case he accidentally vomited everywhere.

"Rab-, sorry  _Karen,_ " replied Seb, pouring more tequila into their glasses and not bothering to look at her. "Busy, darling. Jog on."

Sherlock snorted, earning himself a dirty look as she sashayed away, tossing her hair indignantly. He glared at the back of her departing head, jumping slightly as Seb took hold of his wrist again and waggled his drink.

"Come on mate, you're falling behind."

"Tired. Don't think I want to drink any more."

"Got just the thing for that." Seb reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded packet, slinging an arm around Sherlock who eyed him suspiciously.

"What's that?"

"Bolivian Marching Powder. Only the finest for us," he drawled. "Perk you right up."

"No."

"It's good stuff..."

"No, Seb."

"Suit yourself." He tapped out a small pile into the hollow between his thumb and index finger and sniffed deeply, smirking at his friend's disapproving scowl. "Don't knock it 'til you've tried it. Speaking of which, what did you think of that girl earlier? Before you tore her a new one."

"Who?"

Sherlock stared at him, face deliberately blank, and Seb sighed impatiently in response.

" _Ellie._ The girl in the bar."

"Why?"

"What do you mean why? God, it's like talking to a brick wall sometimes. Look," Seb took hold of his elbow gently and steered him into the living room, flopping them both onto a squashy couch. "Can I ask you something?"

"Depends." Sherlock tightened his elbow around Seb's hand almost imperceptibly and sank further into the cushions of the sofa, watching him with wary, unfocused eyes.

"I've known you for, what, nearly a year now and not  _once_ in all that time have you ever shown any interest in anyone."

"So?"

"So," said Seb, drawing out the vowel until it hung in the air between them like a dissipating smoke ring, "what I want to know is…" He shifted suddenly to face him, one hand on a shoulder and the other lightly tapping on Sherlock's thigh. "Has something happened to you? Put you off girls forever? Boys? Sheep?" He giggled but subsided abruptly as his friend angled his head away, brow furrowing. "Oh come on, I'm joking-"

"Nothing's happened."

Sherlock met Seb's expectant gaze with a troubled, uncertain one and looked to be on the verge of saying something else but quickly snapped his mouth shut. Seb waited for a few moments and then rolled his eyes irritably.

"Fine, fine, don't tell me then, you bloody- "

"Don't be dense." Sherlock looked away again, teeth worrying his lower lip. "I'm saying that nothing has happened to me.  _Ever_."

"Oh." Seb looked confused. " _Oh._ " His face cleared, eyebrows shooting up in a manner that would have been comical had Sherlock not felt so unbelievably humiliated by his confession, hunching himself so far down into the sofa his knees were practically up around his ears. " _Seriously?_ But…so, nothing's happened but you've been  _interested_ , right?"

There was silence again whilst Sherlock watched the other man's fingers absently tap-tapping against his thigh. "Yes."

"So what are you interested  _in_?"

"I…" Seb watched him struggle briefly, "…don't know," he said finally.

"Well we can't have that, can we?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as Seb leaned closer, pupils blown in the dim light of the room. "Why don't you meet me upstairs in ten minutes, Mr Holmes?" He found himself mesmerised by the shape of Seb's lips forming the soft words, face warming at his proximity.

"What for?"

"Ten minutes. Bedroom at the end of the corridor." He pushed himself up from the sofa, kneeling briefly between Sherlock's knees. "Don't be late," he whispered and winked before disappearing into the press of people.

Sherlock sat frozen, fighting down a sudden rush of panic. His friend Sebastian, handsome, funny, popular Sebastian had enquired about his (almost non-existent) sexual history, amazingly had not laughed and told the entire party and  _then_ had invited him upstairs for…for…

His brain appeared to have folded itself into some sort of feedback loop rendering him completely unable to breathe, move or, worse still, predict in any way what might come next.  _Or who._ A high pitched giggle escaped and he hid behind one hand briefly, trying to re-gather himself, summoning the image of the other man leaning towards him.

 _Pupils dilated. Too dilated even taking low ambient light into consideration. Slight glisten of sweat on his chest, reddened lips from increased blood flow to peripheries, oh God, don't focus on peripheries._ He shook his head firmly and fought down the resulting roil of nausea.  _Focus. Speeding heart-rate, slight tremor of the hands. All attributable to cocaine use but could also be signs of-_

_He might-_

He peered into the darkness of the hallway in the direction Seb had gone.

_Might he…?_

* * *

Nine minutes later Sherlock hesitantly made his way upstairs. He passed a little knot of students he recognised from Seb's rowing team, all of whom glanced at him briefly and then promptly ignored him. The landing was dark and the short carpeted corridor deserted, the only light being a small desk lamp placed on a vanity right at the far end.  _Bedroom at the end of the corridor._ He moved slowly on shaking legs trying to quell a torrent of nervous excitement, anxiety and terror. He paused in front of the room, the door left ajar, and composed himself, smoothing tangled curls with a trembling hand.

 _It's Seb. It'll be fine. He caters for all levels of experience._ He closed his eyes briefly.  _Just let me be...good at this._

He slipped inside and stood quietly, waiting for instructions, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. There was a movement near the window, the blinds allowing ribbons of moonlight to dart in intermittently and Sherlock, breath catching in his throat, saw him finally. Seb was kneeling on the bed waiting for him, his face in shadow but his upper body gilded by drifting shafts of silver. Sherlock's eyes were drawn to his pale chest, running down over the strong, sculpted muscle, the lean strength of him, down further to the flat planes of his stomach, the smooth curves of his hipbones-

He stilled, suddenly as sober as if he'd been doused in water and then deep frozen. Seb wasn't alone. There was a  _girl_ on her knees in front of him, the girl from the kitchen and she...

...she was...

Humiliation crashed over him,  _stupid, **stupid,**_ and he squeezed his eyes shut, staggering backwards, preparing to turn and leave when he heard a low moan from the bed. Feeling for the wall he stepped sideways into a small alcove beside the entrance to the room and forced his eyes open again, huddling in the shadow of the door, a flood of arousal rendering him almost paralysed. Seb moaned again, low and throaty, his body rocking gently against the girl's mouth and hands and Sherlock, mesmerised by the sight of him, clung to the wall, pressing the suddenly heavy weight of his groin against it, unable to tear his eyes away. In his suddenly overwhelmed imagination it was  _his_ hands on Seb,  _his_ mouth around him, he, Sherlock, was causing him to make those low, desperate sounds. One of his hands slipped off the wall to palm himself through his trousers, his hips unconsciously mirroring the movements of the man on the bed. He watched as Seb's hand came up to tangle in long blonde hair, feeling imagined fingers card through his own as Seb's other hand traced absent minded circles onto his smooth chest. Sherlock watched through half lidded eyes as his own hand began to trace circles on the wall, feeling cool skin under his fingertips, his other increasing the pressure on his groin and stroking slowly.

I should leave, he thought dimly. Hiding and watching like some depraved voyeur only confirmed what some of the rumours spread about him suggested, but part of him knew that this might be the only chance he'd get to see Sebastian like… _this._ The other man was beginning to stiffen and increase his pace, the soft, sweet groans becoming more urgent. Sherlock gasped quietly, moving his hand in time to each thrust of Seb's hips, the pressure building quickly. He leaned against the wall, knees buckling as he neared the precipice and he slid down it gently, mouth falling open as he bucked into his hand. As his view changed a slant of moonlight suddenly illuminated Seb's face and he saw he was watching him, a slow lazy smile spreading across his face as Sherlock came apart, mouth open in a silent cry.

Sherlock shuddered, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps, feeling Seb's eyes raking over him, then he scrambled to his feet, scrabbling at his coat and tugging it around himself. He bolted out of the doorway and down the corridor only to run smack into a small group of people gathered on the landing. To his horror he realised they were all Seb's rowing mates and as he tried to circumvent them, head down, they erupted into gales of derisive laughter.

"Puts on a good show doesn't he, freak?"

"Always had you pegged as a faggot _._ "

He shoved his way past them and stumbled down the stairs as a final "you just won your  _special friend_ a shitload of money, pervert, you should be happy for him" floated down followed by a litany of complaints, catcalls and more raucous shouting.

Sherlock staggered into the night, striding away as fast as he could without actually running until his lungs were bursting and his stomach threatened to empty itself, only half aware that it had begun to rain heavily. He slipped in a puddle and fell awkwardly, suddenly realising he was soaked through and had no idea where he was. A park, empty, a sliver of river behind it, a single overhead lamp illuminating the path in front of him.  _Phone box._

"Mycroft Holmes."

" _Mycroft._ "

A pause.

"Sherlock, it's late."

"I need to come home. Everything's...everything's all wrong." He clutched the phone to his ear. "Send someone."

"Sherlock, you're months away from Finals. Don't be silly. Whatever it is, is unimportant. Concentrate on the work."

"I can't- "

"Get it  _done,_ Sherlock. Then you can do whatever you want." The line went dead.

* * *

Sherlock confined himself to his room and waited in a frenzy of fearful expectation but Seb did not come to visit him. Not that week nor the week after nor the week after that and he found himself unable to focus on anything. Sleep was a distant memory, his violin felt mute and lumpen in his hands, food was unimaginable so he sat in front of his window chain-smoking, lighting one cigarette from the embers of another and hoping for some sort of an epiphany. Finals were looming but his textbooks remained resolutely unopened; he stared into space for hours, the events of  _that night_ looping endlessly in his head without resolution or respite.

Had it been a misunderstanding? Could he have been so stupid as to believe-? A bet? A cruel prank? He should know this, he should be able to  _deduce_  it. The facts, the  _facts..._ kept slipping from him at the memory of Seb, eyes warm on his as he invited him upstairs, Seb watching him recover his breath as Sherlock collapsed in disarray onto the floor of the bedroom, Seb's body dappled by moonlight.

He needed an answer.

The philosophy, politics and economics students always met in the bar Thursday afternoons following lectures, and, drawing together the last vestiges of his dignity, he showered, dressed carefully and headed down. As expected Seb was there surrounded by a crowd of fellow students and hangers on, one of whom nudged him as Sherlock entered. He looked up quickly and smiled on seeing him, beckoning him over. Sherlock moved towards the group warily, feeling the pressure in his chest loosen slightly at the other man's grin.

"Sherlock! Been a while, get yourself a drink why don't you."

He moved to the bar, turning his head slightly to catch muttered conversation behind him, Seb's replies inaudible.

"...not still hanging out with that freak, are..."

He jumped as Seb's hand fell on his shoulder and steered him to a nearby table.

"How've you been, buddy? Finals have seriously been kicking my arse." Sherlock watched the other man sprawl himself into a chair opposite, as relaxed and shiningly polished as ever and pulled his coat around himself a little more tightly.

"I need to ask you something."

"Sure."

"That night. At the party- " He looked up quickly as Seb sat forward, eyes full of amusement, and ruffled his hair.

"Don't get yourself so wound up about it, Sherlock. It was just a bit of fun, thought I'd give you a look at what you're missing." He smiled again and Sherlock felt his heart lift a bit.

"So...there was no bet?" He asked tentatively, hope lacing his voice. "The others said- "

"Ignore them," replied Seb with a laugh. "They were just winding you up. Listen, it's great to see you again but I have to shoot off."

"That's...fine." He took a quick breath. "I was wondering- "

"I'm going to be really busy, mate," Seb said apologetically. "Finance these days, full of nepotism - it's all about who you know. Got to network, get my name around, mix with- "

"-the right sort of people," finished Sherlock bitterly. "I see."

"I  _knew_ you'd understand." Seb clapped him gently on the arm and tugged at his coat. "God, I'm going to miss you. Tell you what, let's meet up when all this madness is over with. When we're both settled, what do you say?"

"Fine."

"Great. Look," he dropped his voice, leaning closer. Sherlock stayed rigid in his seat, eyes on the floor in front of him. "Word of advice. Get yourself out there, make some friends. You know,  _live_ a little."

"I don't need friends," snapped Sherlock. He drew his coat around himself again as the other man sighed tolerantly. He heaved himself out of the chair and addressed the top of Sherlock's head.

"See you around, mate," he said lightly. "Maybe next time we meet you'll have your own little set of followers, who knows?"

Sherlock watched Seb amble away out of the corner of his eye, turned his collar up and left without a word, squinting into the harsh sunlight outside. He stood still in the midday lunch rush, a silent figure on the busy pavement, forcing people to walk around him on the street, watching them swirl to avoid him before coming to a decision. Back in his room he rearranged his desk carefully and sat down. No more distractions. The work was order from chaos, action and reaction, events were predictable, deducible, could be manipulated to suit. Distractions were just that. They made the mind fuzzy and disordered - with the right sort of focus he could stay safe and untouched from the messy, mundane business of life outside of the work. Family ties, friends, relationships were irrelevant and unnecessary. With the right sort of focus he could get it  _done._

Sherlock withdrew a small folded packet from his pocket, banishing an image of a smiling Seb from his mind, turning it over in his hands before inspecting the contents. It was vaunted to be the good stuff, mentioning Seb's name had given him an advantage with the dealer. Well, he'd find out either way.

"Only the finest for us _,_ " he murmured and proceeded to lose himself in his work.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chronicle of Sherlock's formative lap related incidents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and we arrive at Sherlock and John. The chapters grow ever longer. Especial thanks to Lyrium Flower, the vanquisher of adverbs everywhere, for Horselock, interesting ways to make moustaches fall off and late night perving, er, brainstorming sessions. Slash.

**Five Times Sherlock Came In His Pants...And The One Time He Didn't**

There's a technique to breaking bad news. Trainers and practitioners alike are adept in arranging setting (somewhere quiet, no disturbances) and people present ('have you got someone you can bring with you?') before they even attempt the first conversational salvo that will segue into the eventual relaying of devastating information.

First a 'warning shot' is fired – a gentle lead-in containing a hint of foreboding in the hope that the target will slowly, slowly begin to acknowledge that what they are about to hear is something extremely Not Good. However it is also commonly recognised that the receiver of said bad news, simply by picking up clues regarding the carefully arranged setting (unless of course they happen to be complete morons) will often anticipate the outcome before the warning shot is even fired.

Sherlock always knows when John is about to tell him something he won't like. Not from the setting, which can vary from the unexpectedly domestic to the exhilaratingly surreal (John does not and has never given a toss if they are interrupted mid-relay of information) and it is variable whether other people are present although they are invariably unimportant.

John's warning shot is visual; a forced relaxation of the shoulders, a raising of the chin and the adoption of a painfully offhand expression; all of which Sherlock has internally termed his Not At Ease posture and is usually accompanied by a reciprocal stiffening of the posture of one Sherlock Holmes.

The day had been going so well.

Sherlock yawned his way extravagantly into the sitting room, bare feet slapping on the floorboards before throwing himself into his usual chair with a swish of cotton.

"Is there tea?"

"There was, Sherlock, this morning. Good afternoon. Sleep well?"

Sherlock picked up a nearby journal by way of a response and hunkered down further in his chair, darting a furtive look at his flatmate over the top. John had his back to him, busily folding a pile of clothes from a basket on the kitchen floor. To his consternation he noticed that he was slowly but surely drawing himself into the Not At Ease pose.

"So…"

"Spit it out."

John's shoulders rose momentarily and then dropped again. "Nothing exciting, really. Just…that woman I met in the supermarket-"

"Which one? Miss Tesco's or  _Ms_ Mark's and Spencer's?"

"Yes, very funny."

"Tell me, is there something incredibly arousing about a man who owns a club card?" Said Sherlock snidely. "Is the frozen food section some sort of undocumented aphrodisiac?"

John let out a long suffering sigh and turned to face him although the other man's gaze remained firmly on his journal. "Look, she's coming over in a few hours – Susie – she's, well I just wanted to ask you – oh, for God's _sake_ , Sherlock!"

"I'm wearing pants."

"Brilliant. But the fact remains you're in a bloody sheet and it's two in the _afternoon._ "

"Pants. That was the agreement."

"Will you  _please_ just put on some clothes? For the first time in ages a woman has actually expressed a desire to spend some time with me, and, despite what I've told her, wants to meet you as well."

Sherlock flicked his eyes up, skewering John with a stare which would have quailed lesser men. "What for?" he said sharply.

"God knows." John raised his chin defiantly and shrugged. "She's read the blog, told her a few other stories."

"You were trying to impress her," Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him, "..with stories about me?"

"Yes, it's all about you, Sherlock. Actually they were stories about  _us._  I offered her the tale of the old man with the sore knee – my personal highlight of the week – but oddly enough she wasn't interested."

"Thrill seeker," snapped Sherlock, raising his journal again. "Why don't you show her your scar instead, she'll love that. Better still, tell her stories about people getting their heads blown off. Very romantic."

"Sherlock!"

"I am  _not_ your chat up line!"

There was a long pause where the air between them seemed to thicken and curdle, both men remaining frozen in attitudes of forced indifference.  _He's not reading that_ thought John irritably, resisting the urge to throw something at his sulky child of a flatmate.  _His eyes aren't even moving, the bloody drama queen._

"All I'm asking," he said, forcing calm into his voice, "is that you get dressed and try not to be obnoxious for five minutes. Can you do that for me?"

Sherlock grunted noncommittally, observing the way John angled his head away and clenched his jaw in the periphery of his vision. A vague pang of something like regret curled his fingers more tightly around the journal as his friend turned back to the washing, absent-mindedly rolling his shoulder as if his drawing attention to the scar had evoked a memory of pain.

The indolent afternoon light flowed through the flat painting streaks of warm honey into tufts of John's hair as he methodically folded clothing. A silence settled between them as Sherlock watched him, gradually becoming more comfortable as it stretched.

Lift, straighten, fold, place. Quick, spare movements, fingers deftly brushing down arms, straightening collars and gently piling with a final, decisive pat. He noted John avoided the pale patch on the kitchen table even though it had been thoroughly neutralised – it had taken him a few days to forgive Sherlock the death of one of his favourite jumpers through stray chemical even though he had offered to buy him a new one. No, John preferred worn-in, comfortable clothing, rumpled and familiar, much like John himself. Having witnessed him writhing around in the confines of a new shirt in an effort to 'wear it in' Sherlock had at the time considered experimenting on various ways of relaxing fibre but since said experiments could only be done on new clothing, specifically John's new clothing, he had quickly dismissed the idea as being potentially more trouble than it was worth. The smell of fabric conditioner drifted in from the kitchen, a scent he always associated with his flatmate – clean and strangely reassuring - usually tempered with faint undertones of antiseptic and shaving foam.

Smooth, fold, pat.

The few worn items of clothing Sherlock possessed that didn't get professionally laundered always smelt of John as well. After witnessing a pair of pyjama bottoms mysteriously and repeatedly appearing on the bathroom floor despite twice being hurled back into his flatmate's room, John had since incorporated any stray items including bedding into his own washing without comment.

Warm and content, Sherlock finally abandoned any pretence at reading and lounged in his chair, pulling the sheet up to his chin and letting a feeling of absurd domesticity wash over him. He watched John through half lidded eyes. It had been two days since the last case and although his brain picked at and prodded and pulled apart his current state of inaction, threatening to force him into whatever activity with which it might distract itself, right now,  _right now,_ he was quite happy to laze. It was better when John was around, easier to relax and just be; his friend was a reassuring constant with variables of baffling unpredictability-

"I'm not doing this, Sherlock! What are you,  _twelve_?"

Sherlock blinked both at the abrupt noise and at having been caught staring, lost in idle contemplation.

"Glaring a hole in the back of my head will not make me change my mind. Get dressed or so help me I'll make you."

Eyeing the flush on the doctor's cheeks and the fisted hands, he hesitated, biting back an involuntary 'I'd like to see you try' and settling instead for a disdainful "Can't."

"Why not?"

"Everything aside from what you have on that table is at the dry cleaners'."

"I see." He watched John struggle with a number of replies, no doubt including his overused slave idiom, a few rude names and maybe threat or two. "If I go and get your dry cleaning, Sherlock," he replied evenly, eyes on the ceiling, "will you bloody well get dressed?"

"Fine."

" _Fine._ "

He waited until the thundering footsteps on the stairs had reached the front door before heaving himself to his feet and wandering towards the shower.

Emerging later in a billow of steam wrapped in the same sheet - pointless to dirty a towel really when the sheet would be washed later - wet hair dripping down his neck, he noticed John had still not returned,  _Picking up shopping or chatting up some random woman he found in a tumble dryer, no doubt._  They did seem to emerge from the woodwork when his friend was around but he could make them disappear just as quickly.  _Not enough backbone._ Sherlock propped himself on the kitchen table, idly playing with a shirt collar and smiling grimly. The clean, fresh smell wafted up and surrounded him suddenly; without volition he was bending down to bury his nose in the pile of soft clothing, inhaling deeply, filling his lungs with the scent of-

The front door slammed and he jerked backwards, scattering clothes everywhere as John stamped his way into the living room. He stopped short, dropping the suit bags in a heap as he took in the scene before him.

"You did that on purpose," he said slowly. "You child. You utter  _bastard_!"

* * *

For a few perilous moments John was so furious he considered seizing the nearby microscope and heaving it through the sitting room window. The sheet-clad perpetrator of crimes against washing must have picked up on this train of thought because his eyes flickered quickly over to his apparatus and back to the darkening expression of his flatmate with mild panic before he drew himself up fully and eyed him down the length of his nose.

"Accident," he declared, stepping carefully around him with one final sideways glance which John could've sworn was laced with guilt and which only served to stoke the flames of his anger.

"Oh no you  _don't,_ " he hissed and grabbed the taller man's arm as he passed, fingers tightening viciously around a pale bicep.

"Unhand me!"

"Unhand me? What the fuck, this isn't the 1880's - I'm not done with you yet. You're staying here until I've finished talking!"

The response was a fearsome scowl, and, twisting quickly, the world's only be-togaed consulting detective shook John off to shuffle purposefully towards his bedroom. With a muted bellow John threw himself forwards and grabbed him by both shoulders, spinning him around and wrapping them both hopelessly in swathes of cotton until Sherlock,  _sinuously,_ thought the admiring part of the doctor's brain, managed to contort himself out of his grasp again.

Unfortunately his legs were still tangled and he went face down on the floor with a cry of annoyance, arms trapped awkwardly underneath his hips. John followed, flailing helplessly and landed on top of him. Sherlock yelped in indignation, bucking and throwing his head back, catching the smaller man squarely on the forehead. Eyes watering, bright lights exploding across his vision, John pitched forward as all the strength drained from his limbs, ending up with his face buried in the back of Sherlock's neck.

There was an instant of silence as both men lay unmoving and breathing heavily. John groaned into warm, shower-scented skin and started to lever himself up.

"Get  _off_  me!" Hissed Sherlock, with an attempt to roll out from underneath him.

"Right." John blinked once, twice and grabbed a bony hip, shifting his weight onto struggling thighs to pin him down. He slipped an arm under the frantically writhing man's neck and half-straddled him, jamming his knee into his flatmate's lower back, tightening his elbow and sinking his hand into damp, wayward curls. Sherlock, immobilised with his neck arched uncomfortably backwards, immediately stilled.

" _You_ are going to  _listen_ to me, Sherlock and if I have to half  _strangle_ you to get you to do it I  _will,_ " ordered John, punctuating his words with quick shoves into Sherlock's lumbar spine.

There was no response from the trussed man beneath him but John felt him stiffen slightly.

"Good, I've got your attention now," he said evenly. Sherlock squirmed and then gave a quiet grunt as an unforgiving knee pressed him harder into the floorboards before relenting. "Stay  _still_  Cleo- _fucking_ -patra or I will hurt you," he reiterated, shifting to get more leverage.

"I don't ask for much," he continued. "In fact I don't ask you for  _anything._ " There was a faint gasp from underneath him. "And the one time I do you throw a ridiculous _hissy fit_  and I'm not standing for it, Sherlock, I'm  _not._ " He loosened his grip, absent-mindedly letting his fingers run through the dark mass of hair; Sherlock took the opportunity to turn his head away slightly.

"Get off me," he whispered.

John leaned forwards, bringing his mouth to the delicate whorl of his now proffered ear and felt the long body shudder beneath him, coiled tight as a spring. "Shut it. In a minute I'm going to let you go and you are going to get up  _without_ making a fuss, you're going to pick up your bloody  _clothes_ and you are going to go into your bedroom and  _get dressed._ " There was a strained whimper by way of a response and John smiled grimly. "Then you're going to behave yourself for the rest of the afternoon," he told the mile of exposed neck, brushing his hand along the marble-white, damp column as if calming a skittish thoroughbred. "Or I'm leaving. Are you listening to me?"

"John,  _stop-_ "

"I will leave you alone with your bloody brilliant madness and your insomnia and your 3 am sawing and I don't  _care_ if I have to live in a cardboard box because I've had  _enough_ , do you hear me?" Sherlock bucked then nodded his head almost imperceptibly, heaving in a breath.

"Perfect. Glad you're on board. You ruin this for me, Sherlock," he tugged on his hair for emphasis, "you try to ruin yet  _another_ chance at something relatively normal for me and I will be very,  _very-_ " John tightened his arm as he gave one last hard shove with his knee, "- _angry_  with you." Sherlock groaned raggedly and John felt him stiffen, pale shoulders rising clean off the floor as his back bowed underneath him.

_Jesus, what the hell are you doing?_  John shook his head suddenly to clear the red film from his vision and yanked his arm away. Sherlock immediately went limp, head striking the floor with a loud thump.

"God, I'm sorry Sherlock, I didn't realise-" John shifted quickly, sprawling to one side. "Shit. Did I hurt you?"

For long moments there was no sound apart from their laboured breathing, Sherlock sprawled on the floor as if dropped from a great height.

"Sherl?"

John touched a bare, cool shoulder and shook gently. There was a sudden flurry of Egyptian cotton and Sherlock was up and striding towards his room, red-faced and tight-lipped, sheet bunched around him. He paused briefly to swipe the suit bags off of the floor and then disappeared. The resulting slam of the bedroom door made John flinch, rattled the windows in their frames and elicited a faint 'oh for goodness'  _sake_ , boys!' from below.

The adrenaline was draining away to be replaced by a throbbing headache and the uncomfortable weight of guilt on his shoulders.  _Bugger. You realise you've potentially made things a thousand times worse don't you, you idiot?_  But he didn't have time to reflect and self-flagellate, not long until Susie arrived and he was nowhere near ready. Sighing wearily he rubbed his face and got to his feet then slipped spectacularly on the floorboards, nearly going arse over tit. He scowled at the small smear of something unidentifiable on the sole of his shoe.  _Damn him and his ruddy experiments._

"And if you're going to make a sodding mess on the floor,  _bloody_ clean up after yourself, Sherlock!" He yelled finally before stamping off in the direction of the bathroom.

* * *

After a long, calming shower interspersed with episodes of angry scrubbing John dressed carefully, regretting the clean clothes downstairs but unwilling to trail around the flat half dressed in case he had to deal with snide recriminations from his flatmate. He smoothed his hair down for the twentieth time realising he was all but hiding in his room, reluctant to face the man he'd manhandled into a headlock just for knocking the washing to the floor.  _You're going to have to face him sometime_ he told himself firmly.  _Knowing him he's doing exactly what you're doing. Unfortunately he's a million times more stubborn and can go several days without food so best to get it over with before he does himself an injury._

"Right."

Brushing himself down one final time he trotted downstairs pausing briefly in front of Sherlock's room. The door was shut and there was an ominous silence from within - he was almost tempted to knock but thought better of it, maybe leaving him to stew in there was the best outcome for now, all things considered. He entered the living room and stopped short in surprise.

Sherlock was sitting motionless in his usual chair, neatly dressed in suit and shirt. He did not look up as John came in, gaze fixed in the middle distance, elbows pulled into his body and hands clasped tightly in his lap. John folded his arms and waited for the inevitable verbal onslaught, mentally preparing a thousand comebacks, all of which would be neatly shot down like tin cans on a fence but he was going to show willing for the sake of pride if nothing else.

Sherlock, however, said nothing. He merely sat quietly, avoiding the other man's gaze and John found this far more unsettling than any snide personal assault. Moments passed and he fought down the urge to fidget.

_Fine. Looks like you're going to have to be the bigger man here, metaphorically speaking._

"We should probably talk about what happened earlier," he began, and saw the lips press together, the mop of dark curls bowing expectantly to expose a length of neck as if awaiting the executioner's axe. Abruptly an image of Sherlock sitting before a fire, eyes too bright and hand clenched around a glass popped into his head.

"Sherlock?" He moved closer, noting the too stiff posture and white knuckles. "Are you okay?"

"What is it you want to say to me, John?" The reply was soft and so devoid of inflection that John felt an unexpected flicker of foreboding.  _You went too far you evil bastard. You've properly upset him._  He approached the still figure and squatted down. Sherlock continued to avoid his gaze and as John searched his face he knew something was definitely wrong. He was used to his inscrutability – he'd pretty much seen all the masks Sherlock employed to hide hurt, worry, anger and occasionally impatience but in front of him now there was an oddly vulnerable expression he'd only ever seen once before and it took him a few moments to identify it.

Resignation _._  No, not just that. Resignation and…uncertainty.

_Is he playing me?_ Suspicion wrestled with concern but the latter won out and he shuffled closer.

"I'm not going to shout at you again." He touched Sherlock's knee gently, peering up at him. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, alright? I lost my temper and I shouldn't have done. I didn't mean to. And I didn't mean what I said."

A small furrow appeared between the other man's brows, shuttered ice blue eyes tentatively resting at last on John's face, moving over his features, absorbing, categorising. His expression remained unchanged but John felt him relax minutely.

"I don't suppose we could forget this ever happened, could we?" He continued.

"I think that would be for the best," was the murmured reply.

"Good." John nodded. "Great. You're my friend, Sherlock, I'd hate to ruin that with one moment of madness." With a final stroke of his knee he stood up.

"Fine."

Sherlock dropped his gaze and angled his face away from him, for the briefest second looking so wounded that John not for the first time had to fight the urge to step forward and clasp that infuriating head to his body, to try and comfort this frustratingly aloof, fragile man. But he couldn't imagine Sherlock tolerating any of that, even though his own grasp of personal space was threadbare and the man was perfectly happy jostling him around with wild abandon. John knew he didn't want to risk worsening the situation even more and clenched and unclenched his fists nervously.

"And I'm sorry I pinned you down, it was uncalled for. Must have been unpleasant."

There was a pause, Sherlock tilted his head slightly, eyes suddenly as sharp and glittering as broken glass.

"Not entirely."

John opened his mouth, a puzzled expression crossing his face but before he could voice a question the doorbell rang.

"Doorbell."

"How observant of you," muttered Sherlock with a trace of his usual sarcasm.

"I, er, better get that. Susie. Um, listen, can you just-?" Seeing Sherlock draw more tightly in on himself he decided against saying anything else, and, pulling the doors across to hide the beleaguered kitchen, simply hurried downstairs.

The afternoon went well. Surprisingly well in fact which made John even more concerned than before. Sherlock was quiet and subdued, answering all of Susie's questions politely without any hint of his usual belligerence or condescension and if he caught any of John's pointed 'what the fuck?' looks he didn't acknowledge them.

John lingered a little before they left, waiting until his date had descended the stairs before turning back to Sherlock who remained slumped in the chair.

"We're just off now-"

When there was no response, eventually he shrugged and turned away from the postural equivalent of a door in the face, sighing inwardly.

"John."

He paused by the doorway and rested a hand on the frame. The silence that followed thickened the air making it electric, expectant as if before a thunderstorm. He tensed his shoulders, waiting for the heavens to open.

"Yes, Sherlock."

"I told you once I'm not an easy person to live with," the deep voice was quiet and even, raising hairs on the back of his neck. He kept his back to him, fearful that if he turned around whatever it was that had charged the atmosphere in the room would evaporate.

"I know."

There was another pause.

"I'm trying, John."

* * *

_I suppose I should be grateful_ he thought as he ushered a garrulous Susie out into the warm evening, but the feeling of mild foreboding which had started as soon as he saw his friend as still as a carved angel in the fading afternoon light was steadily increasing. As the night wore on and not a single text message vibrated his pocket he found himself unable to concentrate at all on his dinner companion even though she was perfectly pleasant.

An image of Sherlock, shadows dancing along the planes of his face and eyes downcast kept rising in his mind.  _I'm trying, John._ He remembered the sinewy warmth beneath him, dark hair threading through his fingers, the  _sounds_ that had drifted up from that pale throat.

He suddenly realised a few things simultaneously. One, he was really quite drunk. Two, he was re-living a tussle with a sheet-clad Sherlock with something approaching relish and three that Susie was eyeing him impatiently and he hadn't heard a single word she'd said for the last five minutes.

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

She drummed her fingers on the table. "I  _said_ it might be nice if all three of us went out next time. You know, so we could get to know each other? After all we're going to be spending a lot of time together."

"Who is?"

"You, me and Sherlock," she said with a smirk. "You said he was really difficult, I thought he was rather sweet. I think he  _likes_  me."

"What, Sherlock?"

"Yes," a sly smile in his direction. "Maybe he's got a soft spot for-"

"He's not interested." John blinked in surprise at the sudden venom in his voice.

"How do you know?"

"I just know." He checked his phone again. Nothing.  _Something's very wrong._ "Look, I'm going to have to go."

"What?"

"Emergency. At the clinic."

"Seriously? At this time? You're going to go in that state?"

He stood up hurriedly almost overturning a chair in his haste.

"Thank you for a lovely evening – I'll, er, call you." He threw some money down onto the table and set off home, ignoring her indignant protest, heart beginning to pound in his chest.  _Could this be a danger night?_ He considered calling Mycroft but the flat was only a mile or so away. What started off as a brisk walk had turned into an all-out run without him even noticing and by the time he reached the flat he was gasping for breath, throwing open the front door and pounding up the stairs into the living room, inwardly bracing himself.

Haloed in lamplight Sherlock was standing by the window, hands shoved into pockets, eyes fixed on the street outside. His violin lay precariously on the edge of the chair. John frowned at the quantity of broken strands of horsehair curled across the wood.

"Back early."

"Er, yes," wheezed John, feeling suddenly foolish. Sherlock must have seen him pelting up the street as if the devil himself was after him. "I was….tired," he told his flatmate's profile lamely.

"Tired enough to jog home," observed Sherlock, with a faint curl of his lip. "No need to make excuses, that shrill torture of a voice for an entire evening would have sent a deaf man running."

John swayed as the adrenaline subsided and the circulating alcohol turned his limbs spaghetti-like. "Alright, I was worried," he admitted, taking a step towards him that turned into a hastily hidden wobble sideways.

"I assure you I am quite capable of spending an evening without you, John, difficult as that may be to believe."

"You're acting weirdly - well, weirder than usual -"

" _More weirdly_ , I believe, is the phrase you're grasping for. Despite being deprived of your scintillating company, your fine taste in television and your incisive wit I've managed to struggle on through."

John threw up his hands. "There's the Sherlock we know and love. Well, the Sherlock we  _know_ ," he amended pointedly. "For a moment there I thought he'd been replaced by someone who wasn't a complete twat _._  How wrong can you be, John."

"You must be drunk, you're referring to both of us in the third person. Not particularly cleverly I might add."

"Sod off."

John held his eyes a moment longer bullishly, navy against a blizzard of pale blue and black then abruptly all the fight went out of him and he staggered, dropping his head to massage a temple.

"Okay," he muttered. "Okay, I don't want to do this again. I'm tired, I'm drunk and I've had enough. I don't know what you're trying to do and I don't care any more about whatever it is that's bothering you. Bloody sort it out on your own then."

He pushed backwards and made for the hallway, registering Sherlock whipping his head around to follow his departure.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to  _bed,_ Sherlock. I'm tired and confused and annoyed and I just abandoned a perfectly good date to come home and check on you."

"Oh just shut up, will you? I'm fine."

"You are  _not_ fine!" John exploded, ignoring his brain's frantic warnings to leave well enough alone. He took a couple of long strides through the room until he was right up against the other man, advancing until Sherlock was pressed back against the window. He tried to sidestep the sturdy, extremely irate obstacle but all attempts at escape were stymied when John grabbed an arm and held him in place.

"Is this the only way I can ever get you to listen to me?" He hissed, jabbing a finger into black cotton. "I am  _worried_ about you, Sherlock, stop being such a dick. First, you don't tear me a new one for having a go at you while grinding you into the floorboards, then you're - you're all  _polite_ to my girlfriend-"

"I hardly think that term applies now-"

" _Shut up_. Then for the first time  _ever_ you don't harass me through the entirety of a date and now I come back here to find you've snapped more bowstrings than you ever did after spending half an hour with Mycroft. What's going on?"

Sherlock scowled and advanced on him, trying to walk the shorter man backwards but John simply set his jaw and resisted, ending up with them pressing chest to chest, Sherlock flushed but relentless.

"Get out of my way, John."

"No."

He leaned down and John caught a waft of bottled Sherlock, camphor, cologne and something vaguely chemical. His eyes were wild, his teeth bared but his hand rested gently, almost tentatively on John's hip, a fulcrum to balance them both.

" _Get out of my way._ "

"Make me."

Sherlock moved his head closer, eyes narrowing dangerously. "You can't out-think me so you've decided to bully me instead, is that it John? Grip, hold,  _restrain_  – are you enjoying yourself? Making up for the slights, the experiments, the running off without you?"

"Don't be ridiculous!"

"Is this you exercising your inner dominatrix?" His lips parted as he tilted his head, eyes on John's mouth.

"Don't you  _dare_ ," John's hand clamped hard around his arm and Sherlock hissed involuntarily. "Don't you dare compare me to her, you  _bastard_."

"I wasn't lying when I told you what a stimulating companion you are. Are you enjoying yourself, John?" He repeated softly. "How interesting. Perhaps you've more in common than I thought. She certainly seemed to think so."

"Just…leave it, will you? I am  _nothing_ like her!"

"You're right," spat Sherlock. "You're nothing like her. You're  _stupid_. At least she had limits as to what she wanted from me – sex,  _subjugation,_ she wanted to claim me in the basest way possible. But you, you, John want  _this._ " He jabbed viciously at his head. "You want to creep in here, know everything, have  _everything_  and if I won't let you in you're going to smash your way in there until you have every single part of me laid open."

"Sherlock, no. I don't want…Sherlock I'm your  _friend-_ "

John tried to back away but was held fast by one long, pale hand and the silvery maelstrom of Sherlock's gaze.

"Are you, John?"

"Just calm down-"

"Don't tell me to  _calm down._  What you did to me earlier-"

"Look, I've already said-"

"You humiliated me." Both men went still. "You held me down, you put your hands on me and you made me-" Sherlock drew in one shuddering breath that seemed to suck all the air out of the room and then shoved him away. "And  _now_ -" he faltered then shook his head abruptly.

"What?" John moved his hand from arm to shoulder, trying to catch the other man's eye. "I made you what?"

Sherlock turned his head to regard the hand resting on his shoulder, face terrifyingly pale apart from a hectic flush over those sharp cheekbones.

"Of course," he said bitterly, "tediously self-interested, just like  _him_. I remember now why I decided it was all a waste of my time." He shrugged him off and turned back to the window. "Go away."

"Stop this. Just…stop. I'm completely lost. All I want is for you to tell me what the hell is wrong!"

He flinched as Sherlock whirled on him. "You enjoy being my blogger, my sidekick, my knight in shining  _armour_." His lip curled derisively. "You made yourself indispensible, made me  _need_ you."

"It's called friendship, you idiot!"

"Friendship," Sherlock's eyes were intent on his. "You're not my friend, John."

John swallowed convulsively against the tightness in his throat and ducked his head, suddenly terrified that Sherlock might notice and gleefully take the opportunity to twist the knife further.

"Fine." He nodded several times in succession instead. "You know what?  _Sod_  you. I can deal with being told how little I matter to you once, but twice…" he raised a hand and started to back away as Sherlock took a step towards him, face tight. "I'm going to bed."

"John-"

"If you know what's good for you you'll just  _leave it_." He left without looking back.

In the darkness of his room he pulled off his clothes and climbed into bed, shivering despite the warmth of the evening. Sleep. Everything would be clearer with a bit of sleep. He turned over and reared back as something brushed his face. Fumbling for the bedside light he flicked it on and stared in confusion.

There was a pile of clothes on the bed, neatly folded and stacked, a peace offering on the altar of his duvet.  _Too tired to move it now. Tomorrow,_ he thought muzzily.  _I'll sort it out tomorrow._ He thumbed the light back off and closed his eyes wearily.

As he drowsed, a faint smell of cologne and chemicals drifted up towards him bringing with it the vision of a long white back. Sherlock's face was close to his, pupils blown wide and lips soft and parted.  _I wasn't lying when I told you what a stimulating companion you are._ His knee pressed into warm flesh and he moved his lips into dark curls but this time Sherlock's moans and gasps and bitten off protests held a different timbre, one that in the heat of anger he'd missed before. The slender body writhing as he ground down rhythmically, whimpers becoming less pained and more urgent until it stiffened and shuddered violently beneath him.

John bolted upright in bed, flooding with heat at the memory, and stared wildly into the dark, only dimly aware of the sudden, painful stiffness in his underwear. The memory of ice blue eyes haunted him like a spectre - accusatory, angry, pleading,  _intense_.

-  _you made me_  -

"Oh  _shit_."

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chronicle of Sherlock's formative lap related incidents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now we come to the end. This chapter unfurled into a very respectable nine inch- er, thousand plus words so settle in. Thank you and thank you to the radiant talent that is my beta and friend Lyrium Flower - this is her fic as much as mine and I couldn't have done it without her.

**Five Times Sherlock Came In His Pants...And The One Time He Didn't**

General Practice is not what it used to be. In the old days you could slap on a jacket with elbow patches, dispense valium like it was going out of fashion and get away with saying things like 'pull yourself together, woman, there's absolutely nothing wrong with you' to the profoundly depressed. These days it's all watchwords and sound bites 'patient agendas', 'communication skills' and 'reflective practice'. All GPs are encouraged to reflect on their consultation in the hope it will make them better doctors and not eventual nervous wrecks. They are forced to think about how they appear to their patients, the reactions they inspire and why they act the way that they do towards certain people. No part of the psyche is left unpicked; everything is dissected and laid bare.

When he first started in General Practice John was aware it was not a speciality he ever expected to end up in. In fact it had been Sherlock who pointed out that he'd clearly only got the locum post because Sarah fancied him. Normally it took two years, numerous jobs, a few exams and a lot of paperwork to retrain but Sherlock claimed she'd overlooked the fact that he might well be the next Harold Shipman because she wanted a go on his stethoscope. In the end he turned out to be actually quite good at the whole business of GP-ing, the times he turned up to work anyway.

The endless reflecting wasn't too much of a problem as he fancied he knew himself pretty well already.

Not well enough, clearly.

John slumped in the far corner of the taxi, head resting gently on the window, and reflected. After his sudden and disturbing realisation the night before, sleep had understandably eluded him. He'd just been dropping off, long after the sun had risen, when a furious banging on his door had nearly sent him through the roof.

"For God's  _sake_ , what is it?"

"Lestrade. Case." Came the terse reply. Footsteps receded on the landing before returning quickly. "Coming?"

John had gone scarlet before realising there was a door between them but still he clutched the duvet a little more tightly around himself before replying. "Give me a minute."

When he'd appeared in the living room Sherlock had swept a curious eye over him before brushing past in a swirl of coat and heading downstairs, jiggling the front door impatiently as John followed, head still muzzy from lack of sleep, and ushered him through.

Once safely ensconced in a cab, John had promptly turned away and pretended to fall asleep, his mind immediately drifting back to the events of the previous evening as it couldn't seem to help itself recently. Now that he knew what he'd done, what he'd made Sherlock, er,  _do_ , however inadvertently, he seemed doomed to an endless replay accompanied by frankly alarming embellishments on his part, mostly involving continued tussling and eventual sheet removal. Where on earth had all of this come from? He carefully picked over his self-image and preferences including school crushes and army experiences and found nothing to explain his sudden interest in Sherlock's indisputably male form.  _Bugger_ he thought, curling in on himself slightly and hoping the man next to him hadn't picked up on his hitched breathing as a parade of lurid images jack-booted through his mind. One section of his brain prodded at the epithet tentatively and he shoved it under an alternate pile of swear words, feeling very warm indeed.

 _Maybe I'm repressed. In denial._  Irene Adler's words floated through his mind, amused and intrusive in the dank of an old power station.

-  _We're not a couple –_

_\- Yes you are -_

-  _For the record, if anyone out there still cares, I'm not gay –_

_\- Well I am. Look at us both –_

_Bloody woman_ he thought crossly,  _but maybe she had something-_

The taxi screeched to a halt and his head bounced off the window to an amused glance from his companion. Sherlock was just being, well,  _Sherlock_  this morning, gaily indifferent to everyone else, immersed in the excitement of a fresh case. John scowled at him and climbed out of the cab, trailing behind like a truculent schoolboy as they made their way into NSY and towards Lestrade's office.

The DI was slouched in his usual chair and beckoned them in through the glass, a pointless gesture as Sherlock would have bounded in regardless like a six foot toddler on a sugar high but it gave the illusion of control to his army of minions.

"You remember Dimmock, don't you?" Said Lestrade, gesturing to a sandy haired man who stood near the window. "He's helping us out on this one."

"Yes," replied John with a smile, stepping forward and holding out a hand to the younger man only to be barged aside by Sherlock, seemingly intent on the case files covering Lestrade's desk. "Nice to see you again," he smiled apologetically at Dimmock while directing a murderous glare at his flatmate.

"Mr Holmes-"

"He's not required," said Sherlock, without so much as a glance in his direction.

"Well  _I_ require him," said Lestrade firmly. "He's given us good Intel so far, it's as much his case as yours. And no, you don't get a choice. Take the case, don't take the case, he stays either way."

John smirked to himself as he watched Sherlock's brief internal struggle.  _Must be a good one for him not to argue._ He settled back and let his attention wander as they flipped through the notes, both DI's doing their best to answer the brusque, apparently random questions thrown at them by the pacing detective.

 _Greg would be described as an attractive man. Distinguished._ John frowned.  _Okay, let's see. Man shaped. Bit on the short side. Regular features. Never been that keen on brown eyes but that aside…_ He tried summoning up an image of the DI clad only in a sheet and his mind rebelled.  _Right, well I don't think he's my type._

He turned his attention to Dimmock who was leaning over the desk, pointing at a page and gesturing.  _Taller, yes. More athletic, easy-going, too deferent, needs backbone. Nice face. Could do with a better fitting suit._ He moved his attention down a bit.  _I'm fairly sure that's a nice arse for a bloke._

But Dimmock also failed the sheet test.  _Maybe I need more data. Jesus, I'm beginning to sound like **him.**_ John rubbed his forehead and sighed, looking up to find Sherlock's gaze sharp on him, eyes narrowing fractionally before he turned his attention back to the sheaf of papers in his hand.

"Dull," he remarked. "And obvious. Inside job, items likely stored in warehouse close to sites of distribution. Gang involvement, probably Eastern European judging from the execution methods used. Follow the concierge."

"Stake-out," exclaimed Dimmock, rubbing his hands together.

"Not worth my time," sniffed Sherlock, closing the file with a decisive snap. Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"I'll come," said John, riding a wave of mild anxiety at being once again alone in the flat with Sherlock. "If that's allowed. Fancy a night out."

"Don't see why not," said Dimmock, shooting him a quick grin. "More the merrier. Why don't we meet you-"

"Hackney Museum. Eleven o' clock," snapped Sherlock, sweeping towards the door and ushering a surprised John out with a shove to the shoulder. "We'll meet you there."

The door swung to behind them, Lestrade's confused voice drifting faintly through.

" _What_ concierge..?"

* * *

They exited NSY at speed. Sherlock with one proprietary hand on John's arm to not so subtly frogmarch him down the steps and towards the main road all of which did nothing for the burgeoning hangover-induced headache that was starting up a persistent throb behind his eyes.

"So what was that all about?"

"What was what all about?"

"The 'it's not worth my time' bollocks immediately followed by the weird about-turn." John pinched the bridge of his nose.

"You heard them," Sherlock peered up the road looking for all the world like an extremely well dressed meerkat, "they didn't even know which concierge to follow."

"What?" John screwed up his nose in confusion. "But that was  _after_  you-"

"Taxi!" bellowed Sherlock in the direction of a cab around half a mile up the road.

"You know, I fancy a stroll-" attempted John, feeling mildly nauseous.

"Don't be ridiculous, it's going to rain and it's miles to the nearest tube station."

" _A_ mile, Sherlock, you're only ever _a_ mile away from a tube station in London." He eyed a passing jogger.  _Too muscular._ "A stroll with people," he said faintly. "Lots and lots of people." He tried unsuccessfully to prise his arm out of his flatmate's iron grip.

"Come along," ordered Sherlock, unperturbed, yanking him towards the slowing taxi. "We have to get ready."

"Ready? We've got  _seven hours_ 'til we have to meet Greg and…whatshisname..."

"Precisely."

* * *

The cab ride was decidedly claustrophobic. Sherlock for some inexplicable reason had decided to sit opposite a very uncomfortable John who had to resign himself to occupying a tiny space in the corner and people watching out of the window, trying to avoid the other man's appraising stare as much as possible.

"You're nervous."

"I'm hungover."

"You're only exhibiting mild signs of dehydration, not enough to cause the obvious tremor in your hands nor the increased heart rate. Therefore-"

" _Don't,"_ John threw up a hand, "just…don't."

"You're still angry with me."

"I'm fine. We're fine. I don't want to go over this again."

"Surely-"

" _Sherlock._ "

For a moment it looked as though Sherlock would argue but he merely thinned his lips and turned his gaze on the passing cityscape. Mercifully the rest of the cab ride was spent in silence, John hyper-aware of those eyes turning on him intermittently as he tried to avoid any incriminating thoughts from taking up residence in his brain, however unformed they might be. He all but threw himself out and through the front door, stopping in the lounge to scoop up the laptop and toe off his shoes on the way to his bedroom. He turned to find Sherlock loitering warily in the hallway.

"Tea, John?" he asked softly, not moving as John tried to circumvent him despite the narrow space.

"No thank you. Excuse me-"

"Where are you going?"

"Think I'll go lie down for a bit. Didn't sleep well."

"Really." John held himself still as Sherlock regarded him in consideration.  _Oh God it's written all over my face isn't it? John Watson has been thinking about naked men. Specifically naked Sherlock. He's going to know, he's going to figure it out, just…just keep your thumbs still. And don't look to the side. Or is it down-_

"John."

"I'll see you in a little while," he managed, edging around Sherlock who tracked his hasty exit, hurrying up the stairs and closing the door firmly behind him.

* * *

A few hours of sleep and he woke feeling calmer and faintly ridiculous.  _So what if you've been, you know,_ he rolled his neck nervously,  _thinking naked thoughts. It's hardly surprising given the situation. Let it go. He's not going to say anything, you're **certainly**  not going to say anything. Ever. God, how on earth would you even broach the subject? Hey, Sherlock! Remember when I threw you down, sat on top of you and made you- ?_

"Gah." He rubbed his heated face a few times before drawing himself upright with a decisive clearing of the throat, setting off downstairs towards the living room.  _Nothing's changed, in a few days' time things will be back to-_

His train of thought came to a screeching halt and promptly derailed at the sight of Sherlock sprawled carelessly on the sofa, one arm flung above his head, the other resting on his stomach, face tucked into the back of the couch. Drifting motes surrounded him, luminous in the mid-afternoon sun. A strip of pale skin peeked from below a freed shirt hem and long bare feet twitched, looking oddly vulnerable against the dark of his trousers. A breeze tracked in through the open window, a breath of cool against John's flushed face.

 _He said it was going to rain_ John thought absently, repressing a faint shiver. He picked up the nearby dressing gown and draped it over Sherlock's feet, moving quietly to pull the window shut. He turned back to gaze down at the sleeping man, taking in the peaceful expression wiped clean of its usual austerity, the soft, slack mouth, the tumbling hair and the sharp planes of a face heartbreakingly youthful in repose. His eyes moved down over the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the exposed skin of his belly, smooth under the waistband of his fitted trousers. Despite himself he found his eyes tracing his hips, slipping guiltily over his groin and down those long, long legs, a slow appraisal he'd certainly not allowed himself to dwell on too deeply before and one that was edged with both affection and uncertainty.

He glanced out of the window again, blinking against the glare, and watched the movements of passing people and cars, thoughts drifting and unfocused, basking in the warmth and silence, Sherlock's slow, even breaths washing over him.  _This is us_ he turned to watch the other man again as he snuffled faintly into the sofa, long fingers trailing across his abdomen in sleepy abandon.  _Just this._

"Is there tea?" Murmured Sherlock, opening an eye. John flinched, shifting his gaze back to the street outside hurriedly. "What are you looking at?"

"...people." John cleared his throat.

"People," repeated Sherlock, drawing wayward limbs into a sitting position and yawning before shooting him A Look from the corner of his eye. "Anyone in particular? Earlier you seemed rather fixated on-"

 _Fuck._ "Tea?" John scurried to the kitchen, feeling twin lasers burn a trail from his spine up the back of his neck. He busied himself in the kitchen with kettle, mugs and extensive cupboard scavenging, every sense on alert for a Sherlock Approach and so it was with a vague sense of anti-climax that he re-entered the lounge with steaming cups to find it empty of consulting detective.  _Thank goodness._ He set a mug down on the bureau out of habit if nothing else. _Dodged a bullet there._

But the thought was half-hearted at best and he pottered back to his bedroom feeling oddly deflated.

* * *

Several hours and a good amount of frankly disturbing male dating sites later John finally admitted defeat and closed his laptop with a sigh, rubbing his face. As if in response there was the tell-tale click of Sherlock's bedroom door opening and quick footsteps along the first floor landing.

"Ready?" Asked Sherlock without looking up, intent on pulling on his gloves as John rounded the stairs. He dithered briefly over which coat to wear, handing Sherlock a scarf absent-mindedly.

"Better wear the dark one. Full moon tonight." There was a brief pause. "That ridiculous neck'll stand out like a belisha beacon," John qualified to an enquiring quirk of the eyebrow. "Not very stealthy." He went back to perusing his small selection of outerwear, ignoring his fidgeting flatmate.

"Oh, come  _on._  Take that one, it's going to rain."

"You said that earlier and it didn't. We've got ages, you told Greg eleven o' clock."

"This is a police operation not a night on the town. I don't think  _Greg_ will care much what you're wearing." Sherlock dragged a coat impatiently off the hook and shoved it at him. "Despite what you may imagine."

"What's that supposed to mean?" John muttered irritably as he was herded down the stairs and out the front door in a flurry of wool and cashmere.

" _Taxi_."

By the time they reached Hackney the sky had clouded over and rain was beginning to spatter the pavements. Sherlock exited the taxi and threw his head back theatrically, extending a hand. John rolled his eyes and turned his collar up, eyes scanning the area around the museum, catching sight of an unmarked car parked nearby which promptly flashed its lights at them.

"Sherlock." He touched his arm to get his attention and strolled over, squinting as it began to rain in earnest, the other man following closely behind.

"Evening." Lestrade popped his head out of the passenger window. "God, it's pissing it down. Get in."

"No, thank you," replied Sherlock stiffly. "I'd rather not have my synapses melted by your regrettable taste in what passes for popular music these days. I'll wait down that side street. Less chance of missing our man." He turned and stalked towards a poorly lit alley. "Come on, John," he threw over his shoulder. Dimmock stuck his head out of the driver's side.

"You're joking, aren't you? Come on, you'll get soaked. We can see well enough from here." He reached behind and opened the back door. "Might as well wait with us."

John eyed Sherlock's departing back indecisively.  _I should make sure he stays out of trouble._ He scratched his chin.  _Then again, alone in a darkened alleyway with Sherlock might not be the best idea given the recent situation. Oh bugger it, he'll be fine._ "Staying here," he called after him and ducked into the warm car. Sherlock's steps slowed for the briefest moment and then he was gone, striding into the darkness of the side street without bothering to acknowledge John's parting comment.

It continued to rain heavily and the car was soon uncomfortably hot, John shifting guiltily in the back at the thought of what was surely a drenched Sherlock by now. He peered through the downpour past a dozing Lestrade; there was no movement along the deserted road apart from spreading puddles. His phone bleeped making him jump and Lestrade snorted, snapping alert.

_Came round the back. Pursuing. Alleyway – SH_

"Shit," John leapt out of the car and sprinted in the direction Sherlock had taken. Muted sounds of scuffling trickled out of the darkness ahead. " _Sherlock!"_ Through a sheet of driving rain he saw two figures grappling against the wall and accelerated, feet pounding the slick pavement. Then a glint of steel, a flash of light and one deafening crack. A tall figure crashed bonelessly to the ground, black coat fanning out around him.

"No, no _, no! Sherlock!"_

John barely registered the pale, pockmarked face contorting with surprise as he put his head down and charged, yelling, as the gun came up again. He barrelled into him, both men tumbling headlong, the weapon skittering away into the darkness. Enraged beyond all reason, John lashed out with fists and feet, grabbing whatever he could reach and laying about him, screaming a nonsensical stream of gibberish as he attempted pummel the other man into the rain soaked ground.

Unfortunately his opponent had not only bad skin but also combat training and a cooler head, eventually managing to elbow John in the throat. He folded, was kicked squarely in the chest and skidded across the concrete, dazed, rapidly retreating footsteps in counterpoint to the ringing in his head.

"Sherlock," he rasped, coughing and pawing at the sodden pile in the middle of the alley, half blinded by the stinging rain on his face. "Are you-?  _Sherlock-_ "

The still figure suddenly came to life, arms looping around his chest and pulling him upright. Sherlock's pale face emerged from the background of his foggy vision, streaming with water, tendrils of hair plastered to his forehead. John seized a fistful of coat. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine."

"Your face is bleeding, let me look at you-"

"Just a graze. Had him off balance, would have finished him if you hadn't charged in like a bloody idiot."

John shoved him back furiously. "I thought he'd  _shot_ you. Jesus! I thought the bastard got you!" He rolled to his feet, sore and stumbling as his ribs protested. Sherlock rose easily, wrapping his coat around him and reaching for his phone.

"Let's hope  _Greg_ can head him off," he snapped. "Would hate to think all this work has gone to waste because you decided to play hero."

"Oh right. Yes." John nodded a few times in succession. " _I'm_ the one who buggered off  _by himself-_ "

"- because you preferred to stay in the car with your two favourite policemen –"

" –  _again – "_

"He's not replying to my texts. Phone him."

" _You_ phone him!"

Sherlock made a grab for John's jacket, reaching inside only to have two hands curl vice-like around his upper arms, slamming him back against the wall of the alleyway. He glared down at him, blinking water from his eyes and bared his teeth. " _Again_ , John? This is becoming a bit of a habit, isn't it?"

"I don't. Bloody.  _Care_." He glared up at him, panting. "I thought you were dead, Sherlock. You  _bloody_ idiot." He dropped his head, butting him hard in the chest. "You stupid  _bastard_ I thought-" He yanked him forwards again before slamming him back against the wall, hard, feeling the taller man's breath hot against his cheek, both of them quivering with tension. "I thought I'd lost you."

Peering up through torrents of water John marshalled his nerves, squared his shoulders and looked at his friend,  _really_ looked at him. Not the curious inspection of a sleeping man, not the admiring once over of the erstwhile colleague nor even the worshipful gaze of the continually astounded. For the first time ever, despite the fear and fury raking through him, John allowed himself to properly  _see_ Sherlock Holmes _._

He'd always been aware Sherlock was magnetic, a force of nature - just being in his company was exhilarating, electrifying, frustrating, he'd always liked the way he made him  _feel,_  he'd just never thought of him as an object of desire. Awe-inspiring and unsettling, yes, like watching a lightning storm or a stalking predator, but never as a sexual being. Not, that is, until Irene Adler came along with her amped up sexuality and her fascination and her  _bloody_ insight, muddying up his nicely labelled, clearly defined views on their odd relationship. Was it only then he'd started noticing?

His gaze moved over furrowed brow down to long, rain-soaked lashes, clumped together starfish-like. The pale, patrician face was set, not a single movement betraying what was going on behind implacable glacier-blue eyes. John continued his slow appraisal, aware of being rapidly scrutinised, deduced and judged and all the while, the silence stretched. Neither man moved even as water continued to stream down both of their faces, eyes locked on the other.

It occurred to John suddenly that Sherlock was allowing this stand-off to continue, that he could have shrugged him off easily but he didn't. He simply stood there, still and watchful, tension thrumming from every pore, the air as charged as it had been the evening before except that this time,  _this time_ he was waiting, that perhaps he had always been waiting, for John to make the first move.

"Huh."

Sherlock shifted minutely under his hands although he still didn't pull away.

"John-"

"Shut up. Not a  _word."_ John reached up, grabbed a handful of curls at the back of his neck and tugged him down, shoving a knee between Sherlock's thighs and pinning him in place. He gazed into wide wintry eyes, saw the pink mouth go slack, chest heaving against his as the sodden coat unfurled dark wings around them both. John gave a savage grin and thrust his hips forwards, relishing the sharp inhale of air as he felt a firm length press against him. He slid the hand that wasn't gripping waterlogged hair around his lower back and heaved him hard against his thigh.

" _John."_ Sherlock ducked his head and he gave a soft moan in response, hands coming up to rest on his chest. "Wait-"

"I don't think so," gasped John, circling his hips slowly. "I've worked out a few things, you see." Sherlock's head fell back to thump against the wall, teeth buried in his bottom lip.

" _God._ "

"Flatterer."

He made one last deliberate press, revelling in the faint whimper it elicited and then released sodden hair, trailing his fingers down the back of the warm stretch of neck below. He flattened a palm against the planes of Sherlock's chest, feeling muscles twitch and jump under his fingertips and then smoothed downwards, mapping contours, the dips and hollows of unfamiliar terrain. He stole a look at his flatmate's upturned face, careless of the driving rain, eyes closed, bottom lip reddened and swollen and felt a warm throb of arousal in response.

 _Beautiful_ whispered a faraway voice he dimly recognised as his own.

He tugged out his shirt and stroked experimentally across the strip of belly that tantalised him earlier –  _was it really the same day?_  - feeling Sherlock sag against him, knees buckling under the weight of sensation. Eyes still tightly squeezed, he gave a soft groan and then dipped his head to seek John's mouth, lips sliding messily against his jaw and fingers biting deep into his sides as if afraid letting go would cause his solid warmth to melt away into the darkness and rain.

John turned his face away and heaved in a breath, trying to steady himself, the hair on the back of his neck rising as Sherlock panted into the curve of his shoulder, steam clouding the air around them. He moved his hand down further, hesitating briefly before pressing gentle knuckles against the warmth of the other man's arousal, smiling at the shuddering gasp it produced.

"I thought...you said-" John hummed with pleasure as Sherlock's back arched briefly and he trembled, long hands closing on his shoulders. "You're not-"

"I'm not," replied John distantly, intent on the slow movements of his hand and the body pressed tightly against him. "I'm not interested in men at all."

Sherlock froze, fingers digging convulsively into damaged muscle and John stiffened, crying out in unexpected pain before there was a whirlwind of movement and he was suddenly on his back, confused and dizzy, rain stinging his face, once again left with nothing except the sound of running footsteps fading into the distance.

" _Wait-_ "

He sat up, looking around wildly, but Sherlock was gone.

* * *

"Shit, shit,  _shit_. Sherlock!" Skidding to a halt at the mouth of the alley he scanned up and down the street for any signs of fleeing detective but there was nothing; even Lestrade's car had departed, presumably trying to head off their target. He started to jog back in the direction their taxi had taken earlier, only half remembering the streets which were now almost unrecognisable in the heavy rain, scrabbling in his pocket for his phone.

"Stupid bastard, you didn't let me-" He stopped in dismay. His phone was now a sad, crushed thing, the screen completely shattered, a casualty of the boot in the chest he'd received from the pockmarked fugitive. "For the love of  _fuck!"_ He picked up his pace, ignoring protesting ribs, trying to find a main road.  _Bloody hell, just don't do anything stupid will you, Sherlock?_ The insistent pulse of foreboding twisted his stomach as he ran, the image of his friend's set, white face, those wide desperate eyes swirling with arousal and horror seconds before he was shoved away battered him as he frantically searched for a taxi.  _Don't do anything stupid before I get to finish my sodding sentence._

It was almost two hours later when he arrived back at the flat, hoping against hope that Sherlock had simply bolted back there in lieu of anywhere else, but when he burst in, thundering through each room calling uselessly, uncaring of the 'John, dear,  _please,'_ which floated up from downstairs, the place was deserted.  _Where else would he go? Mycroft, maybe Mycroft would -_ Bugger, no phone. He headed back downstairs and stopped in front of Mrs Hudson's door, trying to compose himself enough to form a coherent sentence. Maybe if he stood proximate to a landline for long enough Mycroft would call and tell him where his idiot of a brother had-

He paused in the act of raising a hand to bang on her door. Smoke. He sniffed tentatively.  _Definitely cigarette smoke._

The thing about smokers is that they think a simple plugging of gaps will hide the tell-tale smell of smoke. Unfortunately any non-smoker, especially one who has spent the last few months being hyper-vigilant for signs of a lapse cannot be fooled by anything short of a catastrophic nasal injury or at the very least a nasty dose of sinusitis. John followed his nose along the ground floor corridor and to the little door of 221C. For a moment he closed his eyes and rested his forehead on it with profound relief before pushing it open. There was slight resistance and he gave a huff of amusement when he saw that a long, grey coat was acting as a temporary and ultimately useless draft excluder but sobered quickly on seeing the figure huddled in the damp corner of the main room, knees pulled up to the chest and cigarette dangling from one long fingered hand. A small pile of stubs was scattered to one side and the bitter smell of extinguished fag mixed nauseatingly with the heavy scent of mildew in the room.

"Found your stash then," said John, moving carefully towards him. A small column of ash drifted from the end of the cigarette and landed on a scuffed dress shoe.

"You weren't in the flat," he tried.

"Evidently." Sherlock turned his head away and John winced at the hoarseness in that deep voice. He crouched beside him and frowned.

"Sherlock, you're soaked through and it's freezing down here-"

"More pithy observations," he took a quick, angry draw. "Perhaps we'll hear about my lack of coat next, oh, and the fact that I have dark hair. Go  _away_ , John."

"No." John reached over and grabbed the cigarette. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Oh, how  _mature_ of you," snarled Sherlock, watching as he ground it pointedly beneath one boot.

"Shut up for a minute you great idiot. You realise you ran off before I got to finish what I was saying? There'd be no need for this massively precious sulk and we'd probably be-"  _otherwise engaged_ supplied his brain helpfully. He cleared his throat. "So what I was  _trying_ to tell you before you stropped off was-"

"I know what you were trying to tell me," Sherlock murmured at the peeling wallpaper.

"No you don't."

"Yes I  _do,"_ glacial eyes were suddenly inches from his own, voice rising in a ridiculous parody, face contorted. "I'm not gay, Sherlock, I'm not interested in men at all but I'm interested in  _you._ "

"Well, yes, actually I was going to say that, but-"

"Stop talking John, you'll only embarrass us both." Sherlock drew in a hissing breath, tugging at damp curls viciously. "I don't care about your little epiphany. I know you worked out what happened the other day, oh bully for you. Want to know how? Oh,  _yes,_ Sherlock do tell me, I love sitting at your feet waiting to be fed scraps of information, well, all right John, I've nothing  _better_ to do than to enlighten your pitifully underused brain-"

"Now hang  _on_ a minute-" said John, easing himself backwards as a hand shot out to fist in his jacket.

"You didn't sleep well meaning you spent a lot of the night going over events but the fact you tried to avoid me rather than waiting for me to soothe your bruised little feelings the next morning suggests that you came to some sort of realisation, one you didn't want me to deduce." Sherlock continued, talking at a point over John's left shoulder, his hand now absent-mindedly smoothing down a lapel. "I thought initially you were working up the nerve to move out but you came along to Scotland Yard willingly enough." His lip curled. "Though you spent most of the time comparing the assets of those brainless  _plods_  rather than listen to information pertinent to the case-"

"-  _that's_ why you decided to come along, you were jealous – "

"I'd rather you didn't postulate, John, it always gets in the way of the facts," snapped Sherlock, fingers tightening again on his jacket. "Your window shopping continued as did your attitude of panic whenever in close proximity to me all of which would suggest that the realisation had compromised your own views on your sexuality and elicited feelings of disgust and confusion at your reactions during and after the event- "

"Sherlock, I'm not -"

"I haven't  _finished_."

"Well, neither have I! How could you think I'd be disgusted with you -"

" _Shut up._ " Sherlock took a breath. "You were confused, unbalanced, likely entertaining involuntary images of me in sexual situations." John coloured at this and Sherlock tilted his head curiously. "A state of mind rather new to you," he finished softly. "You also spent an inordinate amount of time watching me sleep," he quirked an eyebrow as John blushed harder. "Sentiment, John, you were trying to reconcile your emotional reactions with your physical ones but it still took the threat of my death to make you realise that you could, in fact, incorporate your affection for me with something else. Something  _baser_ , something you like to mask with small acts of terrorism upon my person."

John sighed and scratched his head. "So it's taken you five minutes to say you know I like you.  _Like_ you like you. God, you love the sound of your own voice." He gently removed the other man's hand from his coat without letting go of his fingers. "Still doesn't tell me why you ran off."

Sherlock angled his head away from him, expression darkening.

"You turned your face away from me when I tried to -" his fingers twitched in John's and he pulled his hand back, wrapping long arms around his knees. "- to reciprocate. I've never-" He swallowed convulsively. "And when you were…touching...you couldn't even bring yourself to look at me." He swivelled his head, eyes wide and blank, looking unsettlingly like a sleepwalker in the throes of nightmare.

"Sherlock, I wasn't -" faltered John, horrified into incoherency at the blazing hurt suddenly radiating from every angle of his friend's body.

"I understand," Sherlock continued in a low voice. "After all you have limits. You were attracted to the idea of me, managed to convince yourself that it was what you wanted, a rush of emotion enhanced by the thrill of the chase and the threat of death. You played a good game, John," he added bitterly, "but when it came to the point where the idea became the man, became physical, intimate,  _real,_ you couldn't bring yourself to go through with it."

"That's not true. You've got it all wrong," John shuffled closer on his knees. "It was too much, I was still adjusting-"

"It was disgust, John. And fear. You got yourself into a situation you didn't know how to get out of without upsetting us both. So I made the decision for you."

"Now you listen to me-"

There was the sudden discordant blare of the doorbell and Sherlock shot up as if propelled bodily, John scrambling after him.

"Who's that?"

"No one you need concern yourself with," Sherlock replied, reaching for the catch. John knocked his hand away and shouldered him aside with a glare before yanking the door open himself. A scruffy man in a trapper's hat stood on the doorstep and both men grimaced at the reek of sour sweat and cannabis suddenly invading the hallway. He grinned widely, showing off several brown stumps of teeth interspersed with alarming gaps.

"Special delivery for Mister Sherlock Holmes," he said in a ridiculously affected voice before sweeping a shallow bow. His smile faltered on meeting John's frozen expression.

"Piss off," he snapped and slammed the door shut, hearing Sherlock's sudden clatter up the stairs behind him. "Oh no you  _don't,_ " he muttered. He got to his bedroom door just in time, shoving his foot in and ignoring his flatmate's furious kick in favour of forcing his way inside through pure impetus, closing it firmly behind them both.

"Sit down," he gestured at the bed. " _Sit_ down."

"Get out," hissed Sherlock, scrabbling behind him for the doorknob.

"Right." John stepped aside, threw his arms around a slim waist, shifting his weight and twisting despite protesting ribs, and hurled a viciously flailing Sherlock onto his bed, climbing on top and pinning his arms down. He waited there patiently until the furiously bucking, writhing man underneath him ran out of energy and simply lay there, scowling up at him, chest heaving with exertion and sharp cheekbones flooded with colour.

"Here we are again," said John lightly. "You know, I think you may have a point about the acts of terrorism upon your person although it does seem to be the only way I can get you to listen. Plus I'm beginning to think you enjoy having me on top of you." Not deigning to reply, Sherlock settled for tossing his head imperiously. "That man downstairs," he continued, tightening his grip a little on slender wrists, "was he delivering what I think he was delivering?" Sherlock thinned his lips and remained silent, fixing his gaze stubbornly on a point somewhere above John's head. "Because if he was I'm not angry with you, Sherlock." He leaned a little closer, feeling slim hips twitch under his. "I'm not angry but I am very disappointed."

"Spare me."

"And a little bit flattered."

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously. "Flattered?"

"Well," John made a show of getting more comfortable, suppressing a grin as Sherlock fixed his gaze on the ceiling with an air of long-suffering but was unable to prevent an involuntary buck when John shifted his weight. "Irene got a low tar fag and you thought she was dead.  _I_ got almost an entire pack plus a headlong rush into class A insanity just because you thought I'd rejected you. From you that's practically a proposal. So before I kiss you into next week I want you to tell me."

"Kiss-? What? Tell you what?"

"Tell me what I am to you."

Sherlock was silent for a moment, eyes moving over his face. "Many things," he said eventually. "Some of them even practical."

"So things like tea," said John softly, releasing his wrists, tracing the veins visible under translucent skin. "Toast, washing, antiseptic," he gently stroked the undersides of his arms watching his friend's eyes drift shut, splayed limbs tethered to the bed by invisible bonds. "A source of disapproval, admiration, a pointer for social niceties," he drifted fingers up his torso, counting off ribs one by one. "A gun, laptop, notebook, errand boy," he moved his hands to rest gently on bony shoulders, tracing across clavicles. Sherlock opened his eyes and fixed them on his.

"I don't need any of those things. They don't matter."

"I know."

" _You_  matter, John. You're important. To me."

"I know. I just wanted to hear you say it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "We'll add smug to the list of newly developed character traits you've been displaying, shall we?" His expression sobered, eyes flitting over John's serious expression uncertainly. "But-"

"I needed time to adjust, I've adjusted," said John simply. "Now I'm going to kiss you. With intent. Not as a gesture, a display or an experiment, I'm going to kiss you because I want to. Because I think I've wanted to for ages. All right?"

"Fine," replied Sherlock faintly, eyes widening and then falling shut again as John leaned down and pressed warm lips to his. He stayed there for a few moments, braced over him, feeling the rise and fall of the chest against his, the blow of warm breath across his face before tilting his head slightly. Sherlock obligingly parted his lips, hands coming up to grasp at thin air, fingers flexing; John chuckled into his mouth and reached out to take hold, placing chilled digits around his face before delving his own into the dark curls beneath him. The kiss was slow, exploratory, John taking his time to taste and feel, sliding his lips over the pliant mouth under his own, answering every hitched breath with a hum of pleasure. He ran the tip of his tongue gently along the soft lower lip and Sherlock jerked in surprise, clashing their teeth together. John pulled back slightly.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine," muttered Sherlock. He fiddled with the lapel of John's jacket, avoiding his enquiring gaze. John watched him for a moment longer, battling both the urge to point out the recent repetition and a strange mixture of triumph and affection which had him struggling to conceal a completely inappropriate victory dance.  _First, first, first_ his unhinged subconscious sang as he took in the sight of the thoroughly ravished -  _snogged for the first time, ha! -_ man lying under him limp and breathless, lips and eyes shining as if freshly polished.

"Your smugness knows no bounds, Dr. Watson," said Sherlock, eyes still on his coat and John laughed out loud from pure exhilaration before tipping the other man's chin up with one hand.

"Yes, I am stupidly happy it was me and no-one else. You were right when you said I wanted everything from you. I do." Sherlock's eyes slid up to meet his. "But only as much as you're willing to give. Just promise me one thing," he rolled to one side, tugging at a shoulder so they ended up facing each other. "Don't hide from me."

"Literally?"

"Twat." John shrugged off his jacket. "I mean don't hide anything of yourself from me. You can rant at me, leave me behind, experiment on me, well, up to a point, you're never getting your hands on any of my new shirts," he giggled as a vaguely indignant expression crossed the sculpted face inches from his own before adopting a serious expression again. "But you should never feel ashamed, not with me. I'm pretty sure I've seen the worst of you and I think I can cope," he placed a soft kiss on the corner of the down-turned mouth. "This is all new but I'm still John. I'm not Mr Tediously Self-Interested, whoever the hell  _he_ was," he ran a thumb over Sherlock's top lip as he opened his mouth. "When we're here it's you and me, no-one else. You trust me?"

Sherlock closed his mouth with a snap, one hand coming up, fingers and thumb rubbing nervously together. Eventually he nodded, one sharp incline of his head.

"I won't hurt you," continued John. "Not if I can help it. And I won't leave you as long as you need me. But when it's just us, here, like this, I want all of you. Out there you can be whatever you need to be to get the job done but this can't work if you won't let me in."

Sherlock's hand came down and both men watched it weave a slow path before finally coming to rest on John's chest. "But Moriarty," Sherlock's eyes were hooded, his face tight.

"Is out there, I know," affirmed John. "Probably planning his next diabolical afternoon tea with you. Maybe next time he'll slip something in the custard creams. He can turn up dressed as a maid and try and smother us with doilies, I don't give a flying fuck.  _Bugger_ Moriarty."

Both men eyed each other for a moment and then John snorted; a long, loud release of suppressed hysteria that sent Sherlock into reciprocal paroxysms of laughter.

"Do you think that's a viable option for disposing of arch-nemeses?" managed Sherlock between giggles.

"Don't know," gasped John, wiping his eyes. "Pretty sure he won't see  _that_ coming though." They both took a deep breath before dissolving again, clutching each other and howling, feeling all the strangeness and tension of the preceding days draining away leaving simply the two of them, Sherlock and John, blinking at each other in profound amusement in the dimness of the room.

"We should get out of these wet things," said John eventually when they had both calmed down and then sniggered. "Oh God I'm waiting for the dodgy synth track to start now." He took in the puzzled furrow which had suddenly appeared between dark brows. "You haven't even-? Oh, never mind, get your clothes off."

"Romance is alive and feebly kicking I see."

John peered at him. "I meant what I said. If you don't want this now, if you can't give me all of you, I'll wait. But if you won't-" He didn't get to finish his sentence because Sherlock surged against him and his arms were suddenly full of damp detective, fingers tight on his face and lips sliding possessively over his own.  _God he learns fast_ he thought fleetingly as a tongue ran along the seam of his lips and tentatively dipped inside, twining with his as he tugged him closer and deepened the kiss. He brought his hands around and scrabbled at the buttons on Sherlock's shirt, eventually giving up and simply pulling it open to a deep groan of mingled approval and dismay as buttons rained down between them, smoothing his hands around acres of silken chest and back before pulling off his shirt and wriggling out of sodden denim. Sherlock thrashed his way out of his own shirt and then stilled, hands hovering over the button of his trousers. John propped himself up on one elbow and slowly rolled him onto his back, trailing fingers down the dipping planes of his abdomen until he came to rest over Sherlock's trembling hands.

"Look at me. It's still John."

Sherlock let out a breath. " _Yes._ " He arched up to find his mouth again and questing hands were suddenly everywhere, stroking at John's waist, finding purchase on his good shoulder, dancing lightly over bruised ribs, exploring, learning, memorising as he allowed John to undo and then with some mildly surprising contortionism, remove his trousers, leaving them both clad only in their underwear. John mouthed his way down the long column of neck and drew a hand up a twitching inner thigh, pausing to drop a kiss in the hollow of a throat, catching the other man's gaze pointedly before moving his hand higher.

"I don't need a mirror-signal-manoeuvre every time you feel the need to make a point, Jo- _eeeeesus Christ_!"

"Sorry, what was that?" John said innocently, squeezing his way up and down his heavy, warm length. Arousal zinged through him as the alabaster object of his most waking thoughts and more recently his dreaming ones as well, threw his head back in abandon and whimpered, catching an already reddened lip between his teeth.  _Oh my God_ thought John in wonder.  _I want to remember him like this. Just like this forever._ Lean, sculpted limbs clutched at him, a dark tumble of hair trailed starkly against white cotton. Eyes that were ever penetrating, documenting and recording were tightly shut and the long body, more beautiful than any Renaissance statue was arched beneath him, lightly sheened with sweat. John licked a nipple thoughtfully, thanking his quick reflexes when the torso underneath him spasmed and nearly cost him some nasal cartilage. A long, low growl almost below the range of human hearing vibrated through Sherlock's chest causing John to laugh with giddy delight. "Sensitive."

"It…would…appear so," gasped Sherlock. "Again. Please."

"For science," John nodded soberly before fastening his lips around a pink nub and swirling his tongue. This time he rode the wave of torso, anchoring himself with one hand curling around the long neck as Sherlock arched and inhaled sharply through his nose, teeth buried so deeply in his bottom lip that John was surprised at the lack of blood thus far. He was aware of a sudden, strangled noise as he ventured below the waistband of dark underwear and closed his fingers on the solid, heavy warmth of his erection. "Need to get these off you," he murmured, knuckles stretching the elastic. "Bloody hell these are soaking, was that the rain or is that all you?"

Sherlock turned his face into the pillow, eyes still tightly shut and shook his head wordlessly, tensing as John removed his hand and inched up his body until he hovered over dark curls.

"Hey," whispered John. Sherlock opened his eyes and heaved in a shuddering breath, drowning him in pools of silver ringed midnight. "If you want we can-"

"I don't want to stop." He turned pleading eyes on John, searching navy depths as if trying to read the future in the haphazard flecks of colour. "But-"

"It's just you and me, remember?" Breathed John. "Let go. I'm here." He leaned down and captured his lips again, feeling a low moan vibrate through the undulating chest under his. Trembling fingers seized his hand and placed it onto springy curls below -  _and_   _how on earth did he get his pants off without me noticing? -_ before plucking at John's underwear impatiently.

"Not now," he muttered into warm exhales of breath, nibbling gently on a plush top lip. "Later. I'm terrible at multi-tasking."

"I would have thought," there was a bitten off moan as John began to move his hand in long, smooth strokes, gliding over moistened skin, "that that particular skill was rather a prerequisite for an army doctor."

"Didn't exactly get training for this sort of eventuality," murmured John, seizing an earlobe between his teeth and sucking it into his mouth. "Now I've wanted to do  _that_ since the floorboard incident," he added indistinctly, smiling at the sudden wordless exclamation and the profusion of goose-bumps which appeared across the marble chest. He felt the warm shaft thicken in his hand and speeded his movements, shifting as Sherlock rolled to press their chests together and panted into his mouth. His eyes were fever bright and swirling with a myriad of questions, statements and declarations as he frantically sought out John's lips again, fingers closing on his sides, moving up his back, fluttering across his shoulders, unable to settle, stroking, mapping, claiming the expanse of tanned muscle and scars. Each exhale became a low moan which vibrated up John's spine, fanning out to his peripheries and wrapping him in sonorous warmth.

"John _,_ " Sherlock pulled his mouth away and buried his face in the juncture of neck and shoulder, body coiled tight as a bow-string. " _John-_ "

"I'm here," he answered, burrowing a hand between them to brush over a nipple, pressing his lips to the damp tendrils of hair curling over the furrowed brow. "I'm here," he repeated as Sherlock tensed, quivered and then cried out, spilling over his hand, shuddering, whispering into his neck, a supplication of "John, John,  _John_ " until finally he stilled, lax and heavy against him.

For long minutes there was silence punctuated by gradually slowing breaths until Sherlock roused himself enough to incline his head. "Do you want to- ?" he murmured, eyes half lidded.

" _God_ yes" breathed John, brushing curls out of silvery eyes with an unsteady hand. "But not now. Sleep, Sherlock, you're halfway there already."

"I don't mind. If you want to-" Sherlock made a vaguely suggestive gesture with one long fingered hand.

"I do want to. Whatever it is you're suggesting I absolutely want to but we need… _things_ …"

"Things," repeated Sherlock, dropping a hand to his waist and curling around him like an indolent cat. "You should procure…mmm…things…"

"Tomorrow," John assured him. "I need to visit the cash machine, get a new phone …"

Sherlock gave a noise of sleepy assent, burrowing into his neck and inhaling.

"Are you sniffing me?"

"Mmm. You smell of…"  _washing powder, tea, antiseptic, shaving foam, me_ "…you." He dragged open unfocused eyes. "John-"

"Shush. Whatever it is can wait until tomorrow, Sherlock." He tugged him closer, burying his lips in silky locks, delighting in the soft moan and the slide of skin against skin.

"We've got all the time in the world."

END

 


End file.
